


Stray

by Speakfire



Series: Ghost Stories [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8732389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speakfire/pseuds/Speakfire
Summary: There's a difference between surviving and living.   A Clintasha story that picks up after the events of The Avengers movie (written before Avengers: Age of Ultron came out thus the Canon Divergence/AU tag)  Oh, and there's a dog.





	1. 1

She pulls up the winding gravel drive and parks her Audi A5 behind his beat-up '85 Bronco. It's just now dusk and the sun is setting behind the trees on the other side of the lake with languid contentment. She opens the door, leaving the cocooned silence of the car, and is promptly bombarded by the sounds of North Carolina at night—crickets, whippoorwills, spring peepers, bullfrogs, and the long, haunting cry of a loon that hasn't flown north for spring yet.

The front door to the cabin is open but there's no sign of movement beyond the screen door. Embers in the brick firepit on the side of the house glow dull red and the scent of grilled beef is so thick, she can almost taste it. After closing the car door behind her, she walks through the front yard and now she notices a few things that seem, well, off. The garden hose reel has been tipped over and the hose itself trails aimlessly through the middle of the yard, but away from the flowerbed. On the birdfeeder, the suet feeder hangs empty and open like a cage that's been split in two. One of the citronella candles next to the door has been knocked over, the other is upside down and missing the lid. There's a half-eaten hamburger on the edge of the deck, and it hasn't been there long, because the ketchup is a crisp, bright red.

Natasha draws her Glock 26s and she's just put one boot on the bottom deck step when she hears it—a harsh birdcall that could be easily mistaken for a crow. It's the cry of a European Roller, and they don't exist outside of zoos in the United States. The call is repeated in quick succession a second time, and before it has trailed off, she's located the source in a poplar tree, about 7 meters off the ground. Casting one more look around the yard, she heads in that direction and holsters her guns long enough to shimmy up the tree.

Carefully examining him as she settles on a thick branch adjacent to his, she sees that while he has his bow, it's not in his hand but settled across his shoulder. There is no immediate threat, then. He spares her glance, giving her that quick familiar smile before turning his attention back to the tree line on the opposite side of the yard. She looks that way as well and they sit there, waiting in silence. She doesn't know why, and it doesn't matter—he is her partner and if he is waiting and watching for something, then she will as well. As an assassin, she is nothing if not patient, as covert operations tend to involve a lot of waiting around.

The wait is a short one. Only ten minutes have passed before she sees it, a low hunched shadow moving through the trees, just behind thin saplings and tall grass clumps that fringe the edge of the yard. It's far too small to be a man and the shape seems amorphous and fluid for reasons that go beyond the dim light, even to her keen eyes. She palms one of her Glocks but Clint remains motionless, not even bothering to reach for his bow. Slanting him a look, it's only now that she observes his slouching seat on the branch, his steady, relaxed breathing, the hint of something approaching anticipation in his expression. Whatever this thing in the woods is, he does not see it as a threat and so, neither should she. Her hand remains on her gun anyway.

The thing goes still at the edge of the woods, pausing for a long moment before it steps out onto the lawn and now, she can see it for what it is—a dog. A damn dog. She can't help rolling her eyes with exasperation and gives Clint another sidelong glance, this one promising enough pain and retaliation that even the irrepressible Tony Stark would be breaking into a cold sweat. He ignores it, as usual, his attention focused on the animal that is making its way across the yard.

Natasha studies it as well, and the reason for its indistinct shape in the dark underbrush is obvious now, because she can see the brindle striping that covers every inch of the dog's body, save for its black nose and eyes. The stripes give the scrawny creature a natural camouflage in low light and tall grass, not unlike the stripes on a tiger. For all its caution in stepping out into the open, now the dog pads across the yard with a slow, deliberate stride and an uncanny grace more suited to a lion. She can't tell what breed it is, only that it's lean and thin and the very tips of its uplifted ears flop over. It walks over to the birdfeeder and peers up at the empty suet holder with something approaching resignation and then lowers its muzzle to eat the seed husks left behind by the myriad of sparrows and finches and other songbirds off the ground.

_I felt hungry enough to do that_ , the brief thought flickers through Nat's mind before she balls that memory back up and tucks it back where it belongs.

The dog gives up on eating seed husks and walks toward the deck, pausing to lift its snout up in the air, nose twitching. The half-eaten hamburger has its—his, she realizes—attention now, and reaching the edge of the porch, he jumps up, putting his paws on the deck to give it a sniff.

The light coming through the front door shines more clearly on him, she can see what else the brindle stripes in the dog's coat have hidden from view. The animal is beyond scrawny or thin, he's emaciated. Every rib can be seen, shifting beneath that mottled coat, every bone in his spine protrudes out on his back, even the bones in his tail can clearly be distinguished from one another. He is starving to death, and Natasha knows exactly the degree of suffering that entails. Her Glock is in her hand before she's even thought about it, and she lines up a shot. This is not cruelty. It is mercy.

"No," Clint breathes the word, his hand coming down on her forearm with surprising weight.

She looks at him and there is something implacable in his expression that tells her this is not open to discussion. Holstering her gun, she still whispers under her breath, "He is dying." He is still gripping her arm and she only has to glance down at it once before he removes it.

"He is surviving," he returns firmly, his gaze shifting from her back to the dog.

Their voices may have been indiscernable to human ears, but canine hearing is far more acute and the subject of their conversation is peering up at them. He drops his head, grabs the burger, and heads for the woods at a fast trot holding his prize in his mouth. Leaping over the thick grass edging with cat-like grace, he all but vanishes from sight amongst the trees.

Clint is already making his way down out of the poplar tree, and she reaches the ground a few seconds later. Together, they walk toward the cabin.

She doesn't look at him when she says, "If you feed him, he'll keep hanging around."

He doesn't respond.

"You know he's crawling with fleas, right?" she feels compelled to point out.

"I think you've said that about me, too."

She almost smiles. "Truth hurts."

Luckily for him, he's saved her a couple of hamburger patties. She eats and he talks, pausing only to steal the occasional Dorito from her, despite the fact that the bag is within arms reach on the counter. He gives her updates on what's been going on with everyone. With the aid of the Tesseract, Thor can now move freely between Asgard and Earth, so he is finally making good on his promise to see Jane Foster again. Cap is spending most of his time at the New York Public Library, trying to catch up on the last 60 years worth of history. Bruce is doing research at the ridiculously advanced labs available to him in the Avengers Tower. Tony Stark is being, well, Tony. And he's still on a 'temporary leave of absence', but the final review is coming up in two weeks.

He's matter of fact talking about his situation, seemingly past both guilt and bitterness, but she knows better. When he goes to swipe another one of her Doritos, this time she stops him by putting her hand atop his and gives him a Look that conveys her thoughts on that topic. His ledger has far less red in it than her own, but no matter how many times he offsets it with black, the red never gets completely erased.

Clint shifts his eyes away from hers down to their co-joined hands, and she squeezes his large hand painfully hard in retaliation. He doesn't wince or change expression, just levels a gaze in her direction. She tilts her head to the side, mind working through the tree of this possible conversation. She chooses. Wets her lips. "Don't steal my Doritos." Her voice is deadly.

Recognition flickers across his face and his hand forms a tight fist beneath hers, clenching and relaxing with visible effort. Then his grin is fleeting but genuine as he tugs his hand free and then pops a pilfered Dorito into his mouth. "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."

She can only sigh with extreme patience. As much as she is enjoying his conversation and company, especially after being on a solo mission for the past 18 days, not even the Black Widow is immune to jet lag. He cleans up the kitchen and she retrieves her luggage from the car before settling in the guest bedroom for the night.

At 4 am, a loud rattle of noise wakes her up. She's up and out of bed between one breath and the next, and her guns are in her hands. The house is chilly but she ignores it. Clad only in her pajama short set, she opens the guest room door and stealthily ventures out into the hall. The floorboards don't dare creak at her passing and she glides over to the window, peering outside through a slit in the blinds. The dog is out there again, and she watches as he uses his nose to roll the metal citronella bucket across the deck. Then he picks the small pail up by the handle and she can see the effort it takes him to hold the weight as he carries it down the steps and toward the woods.

The master bedroom door opens and Clint emerges, yawning and groggy. He stretches and scratches his chest through his white t-shirt and is irritatingly unconcerned about all the racket coming from outside. At least he's not wearing the King Kong boxers this time. She might have had to shoot him for that.

"One of your citronella candles just walked off."

"Yeah?" He joins her at the window and she can feel the heat emanating from him as he looks out. "Huh. Well, now he'll have the matching set of bucket and lid, at least."

She just stares at him.

He catches her near glare and his eyebrows arch upwards. "What?" A yawn escapes him and he turns away, "Don't worry about it. He'll bring it back later this morning." After a brief detour in the bathroom, he returns to his room and pulls the door shut behind him.

There's no point in her going back to bed as awake as she is now, so she remains where she is, at the window. The sun is just coming over the trees when the dog emerges from the woods again and sits on his haunches, watching her watch him.

 


	2. 2

At 5:59 am, she is in Clint's room watching him sleep sprawled out on his back, mouth half open and almost but not quite snoring. Her fingers trail the sharp edge of the Bowie knife she found behind the bedstead and she wonders exactly how often weapons are used against their owners. It happens far more often to people in her line of work than in a run of the mill home invasion, she suspects.

At 6:00 am, she attacks. The element of surprise is fleeting at best, and he manages to throw her off of him before rolling off the opposite side of the bed, keeping it between them. She is not surprised to see he has procured a second knife from somewhere and crouches low, holding it at the ready. "Good morning," he smiles at her.

"Good morning," she says, and goes after him again.

It's a tame battle by their standards because his bedroom isn't completely destroyed, and ends with a wordless mutual agreement when he's got his knife inches away from her cheek and hers is coming up under his chin.

After they get some exercise clothes on, she gives him a five-second head start in a morning run that mixes sparring with parkour and includes dash vaults, wallspins and short-straight punches. They finish it off after three miles with a kill pose and then jog back. Clint stretches and Natasha does yoga. He straightens his bedroom back up while she showers, and then she gets the coffee started while he takes his turn in the bathroom. They cook breakfast together and eat. He does the crossword puzzle in the paper, and she thumbs through this month's issue of _Guns & Ammo_.

He's pouring himself a second cup of coffee when a metallic thud comes from outside. They both make their way over to the window and stare at the stainless steel grill brush that has appeared on the front deck. The dog is nowhere to be seen. "Oh good. I was thinking of grilling some ribs tonight," he comments, taking a sip from his mug.

"You're still missing the citronella candle," she points out.

"It's not even ten, lots of morning left."

He drags her out to run errands with him, and she makes herself ignore the fawning blonde cashier at the grocery store who wears too much lip gloss and calls Clint by name. They stop by the Seed 'n Feed to pickup metal dog dishes and a 50 pound bag of dog food. Then he convinces one of the local veterinarians to give him two dog medications, one for fleas and ticks, and the other that's a heartworm preventative and dewormer.

When they pull up the driveway to his cabin just before noon, he doesn't even try to hide his smile at the sight of two citronella candles on the deck, complete with lids. The little bucket handle is bent, but it's otherwise unmarked. The garden hose has moved again—it now stretches all the way over in front of the porch. She helps carry the groceries inside and gripes, "He didn't put the lid back on."

"Give it time," is all he says and she honestly doesn't know if he's joking or not.

The dog pills are stuffed into a small ball of raw hamburger and placed in the dog dish before being covered with a small kibble. "He'll just spit it out," she says, following as he carries the bowl outside. She's never even owned a dog and still knows that pills are notoriously difficult to give to dogs and cats.

"You actually think he takes the time to chew?" He leaves the metal bowl in the middle of the yard and heads back inside to watch.

Less than five minutes pass before the stray has put in an appearance, padding over to the bowl and sniffing it a single time before he literally inhales the contents. In full sunlight, she sees he is even smaller than she had initially thought, no taller than a coyote but with the short, smooth coat and spindle thin legs of a whippet. The head is too large and blocky for him to be a member of that breed, though. Natasha fully expects him to take the bowl, but he leaves it behind. Instead, the dog walks around the side of the house and is out of sight for about a minute before he reappears, this time making off with the grill spatula.

"Good thing I decided to make hamburgers last night."

They eat grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup for lunch and then she does kata on the porch. He knocks around in his shop, tinkering with the old Indian motorcycle he's had longer than she's known him. Leaves rustle suspiciously in the perimeter woods and there's no doubt they're being watched by nonhuman eyes, but the dog doesn't come into the open, not with them in obvious view.

She's toweling off after kata when Fury calls to tell her he's got another assignment lined up. Hanging the towel over the back of one of the patio chairs, she heads inside for a glass of water while listening. Her flight leaves Norfolk for the Helicarrier at two pm tomorrow, and she's got a lot of intel to read on the target. "Put Barton on," Fury says just as Clint is walking in the front door, wiping his hands off on a rag before tossing it on the counter. Wordlessly, she passes the phone to him and listens to the one-sided conversation that ensues.

"Sir?...No sir...Sir, if I could just..." His face is stoic when he slants a glance at her, his eyes are a pained stormy gray. She knows exactly what the topic of conversation is. He's been trying for months to get access to the files that detail his actions when under Loki's control, including the number and names of agents he killed. "No, I understand...yes sir...I'll be ready. I've been ready for six months..." There's a long stretch during which Fury talks and Clint looks down at the ground and then finally responds, "I know...Thank you. I'll see you in two weeks." The call has ended and he hands the phone back. The barest hint of a smile quirks his lips and he asks, "Vacation already over?"

"Tomorrow." She offers him her water glass and watches him drink some. "He's never going to let you see those files, you know that, right?"

His fingers tighten around the glass. "I know he won't. I just... I can't let it go just yet. I don't want people thinking I don't care about what I did when Loki had me."

Natasha is Russian and there is only one response to that. "You care too much." It's harsh but she doesn't like that this is still eating him up after all this time.

"It's better than not caring enough." It's not the first time they've disagreed on this topic, and it won't be the last.

She takes her glass away from him, empties the remaining water into the sink and then goes back outside. Her towel is gone. She glares at Clint, who raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Don't look at me."

Again, the thief is nowhere to be seen. "I suppose it will be back tomorrow, folded neatly on the top step?"

"I wouldn't hold my breath on that one."

She decides to clean her weapons and spreads them out on the patio table. It's too small, so the knives will have to wait. He gets his bow and quiver and does target practice that gets increasingly ridiculous. "If you ricochet a shot off my car, I'll make what I did to Dubroff seem fun by comparison," she warns. He's not in sight but she knows he can hear her. The next shot isn't off of her car, but off his Bronco. It joins the other arrows in center of his target.

A few moments later, he comes up behind her as she's putting her weapons away. "I'll get the fire started."

They eat the barbequed baby back ribs outside, and the dog is a shifting shadow in the underbrush. The bones are piled up on an extra plate, and she asks, "Will you give him the ribs?"

"No. They're pretty small and with how he swallows food whole, he's liable to choke on them. I'll give him some more dog food later."

She doesn't ask why he didn't feed the dog more earlier. She knows all too well that if he gives the dog too much food when it is so emaciated, it will do more harm than good.

He saves the dog some rib meat, mixing it in with the kibble in the metal dish. She is surprised when he comes back inside, closing the door behind him. "I figured you would stay on the porch and see if he'd come to the bowl with you out there," she comments as he joins her at the window.

"He's not ready for that yet," he tells her and they wait in silence. Again, about five minutes passes before the dog leaves the woods to investigate the bowl and consumes the contents. Then he meanders around the yard, checking for more millet seed husks and leaves their field of view again when he goes around the side of the house, presumably to check the fire pit for leavings again. There's nothing there, and this time when he leaves the premises, he's not taking anything with him.

Clint settles himself on the couch and picks up the remote, turning the TV to a baseball game. She joins him on the other end of the small couch, leaning over to pick a book up off the coffee table that had caught her eye the previous night. " _Famous Love Poems_?" she inquires with one raised eyebrow and kicks off her shoes, drawing her feet up to tuck beneath her.

"What? There're some beautiful poems in there, deep and lyrical." He is all innocence and then ruins it by saying, "Plus, if I memorize a few good verses, it might help when I'm trying to pick up women."

The image of the blonde cashier flickers through her head and she lashes out at him with her foot. He captures it in his hand before she makes contact and chuckles, "I'm just kidding. Stark gave that to me, said he didn't need it anymore since Pepper's got him on the short leash and that neither Banner nor Cap would get any use out of it. Anyway, can you really see me spouting off love poems to someone?" Clutching at his chest with his free hand, he quotes, "Her gestures, motion, and her smiles, her wit, her voice my heart beguiles. Beguiles my heart, I know not why, and yet, I'll love her till I die."

And there's something in his tone of voice, in how he's looking at her, that makes her heart beat a little faster and her skin to feel a little warmer. So she tries to kick him with the other foot, because she doesn't know what else to do. He catches that one as well, and holds both of them across his lap in a firm, yet gentle, grip. She could free them if she wanted to, but decides she's overreacted enough for one night. "Stick to killing people—you're better at it," she sniffs.

"Your recommendation is duly noted," he returns with a sidelong grin, loosening his grasp on her feet and using the remote to turn up the volume on the game. She pulls them out of his lap but uses his thigh as a foot prop, opening the book and settling in among the couch cushions to read. They spend the rest of the evening in comfortable silence before going to bed.

She wakes up at five on the nose. After putting on some light, casual clothes she walks over to the window and looks out.

Clint immediately registers the press of the cold metal barrel against his cheek, but at least she doesn't cock the hammer. "Your dog brought my towel back," she growls at him. He opens one eye, then the other, and turns his head even more into the barrel so he can look up at her. "Um… yay? That's good, right?"

"It's been ripped into about ten pieces."

His eyes widen. "Oh. So…you want to borrow a towel?" It's on after that, but he's laughing the entire time. She goes easy on him, telling herself that it has nothing to do with the fact that his laugh is nice and she hasn't heard him do a lot of it since that deal with Loki—there's just no challenge in putting him down when she has such a distinct advantage.

There's not enough time for a fun-run this morning, she's supposed to be in Norfolk by two that afternoon. They take turns in the shower and then he makes pancakes, flipping them in the air with the expertise of a world class fry cook. After they finish eating, Clint feeds the dog, though every time he spots another shredded scrap of fabric it sets him to chuckling again. She counts up 14 viable ways to kill him with the shredded towel pieces but after hiding his body, only one will give her enough time to make her flight, so she decides it's too much effort—for today, anyway.

When the dog is finished eating, she opens the front door. Startled, he sprints for the trees with his bony tail tucked between his legs and she follows.

"Nat?" Clint calls, trailing her into the woods. "Natasha, what are you doing?"

She doesn't answer. The terrified dog runs, leaping over fallen trees and ducking through the underbrush with surprising speed and grace, and Natasha can only see him because he is moving—if he were standing still, he'd be all but invisible amidst the dappled streaks of light that filter through the canopy. It doesn't matter in the end, because he is a dog and she is human and four legs will beat two in a footrace all day long.

When the stray ducks out of sight behind a clump of trees, she stops chasing and turns in a slow circle, carefully examining her surroundings. The path she had followed the dog down is just that—a narrow trail that likely was a deer path long before the dog had started using it.

Clint jogs up, observes her acute study of the area, and knows exactly what she is looking for. "He sleeps over here," he tells her, gesturing to their right. "I'll show you." He leads, pushing low branches out of the way, until they reach a fallen pine tree on the edge of sloping ground. The root base is almost four feet tall, and when they go around to the opposite side, she sees the tree has settled in such a way that it's formed a shallow cave, one more than large enough for the dog to settle into comfortably.

She can see where the ground has been tamped down by the weight of his thin body, but there are other things in the cave as well, ranging from a plastic flower pot to a garden hose attachment, to an old leather work glove that's missing the index finger. One item in particular catches her eye and she crouches down to pull it out. It's a baby toy, a bright green and yellow stuffed platypus with a wide duck bill and four broad feet made of a soft, almost rubbery material. She touches one of the feet, rubbing her fingertips over the bumped surface and realizes she's holding an infant's teething toy.

Clint is standing next to her watching in silence and he says what she has only just now realized. "He's just a puppy. I don't think he's more than five or six months old. I don't know if he was abandoned or born feral or what. I just know no one else has tried to help him."

Her fingers tighten around the soft baby toy at his words and when she looks up at him, her eyes are dry and burning and she doesn't know why. "You care too much," she tells him again.

Sliding his eyes away, it suddenly seems that he is afraid she will see more than he means for her to. Then he repeats, "It's better than not caring enough." His hand is warm against hers when he pries the toy from her fingers and replaces it in the dog's den with something approaching reverence. "Let's get back before you miss your flight."


	3. Chapter 3

The mission takes her to a world famous and highly exclusive spa in Paris. She is tasked with befriending the mistress of a Ukrainian crime lord in an intelligence gathering operation. It soon becomes obvious that Lerusia has never heard the phrase 'loose lips sink ships'. After two days of sharing the sauna, Turkish steam baths, and a prolonged conversation at side-by side tables during a particularly gritty exfoliating massage where it took her a whole half-minute to relearn how to peek out from behind cucumber slices embedded in her eye sockets, the young Ukrainian woman considers 'Nadenka' to be one of her closest confidants. They go shopping and to treatments and salons together and everyone from the clientele to the extraordinarily discreet staff are refined and serene. Natasha has never been so bored in her life.

She's supposed to be at the spa gathering information for fourteen days. Lerusia spews so many details about Bohdan Sirko's lifestyle, daily schedule, and habits (up to and including his apparently astounding sexual prowess and proclivities) that by day ten she has had about as much as she can stand. 'Nadenka' learns there has been a family emergency back home, so she and Lerusia exchange numbers and email addresses, air kiss each other's cheeks and vow passionately and with many hand gestures to keep in touch.

Natasha then shifts to Phase two of her mission. She flies to Grodno, Belarus where Sirko is exactly where his talkative mistress had said he would be, buying some chemical weapons from a former KGB agent turned weapons dealer slash capitalist in a textiles factory. There is an unfortunate incident involving the chemicals that results in a spectacular explosion, and as a result, Lerusia no longer has to worry about what to get Bohdan for his birthday the following week. There's also one less entrepreneur in the world.

Fury debriefs her on the Helicarrier and then sends her to the Avengers Tower to touch base with the others. Not much has changed since she was there a few weeks ago, but after the Paris spa ordeal, she wants to punch someone and there's not a good sparring partner to be found. Steve Rogers would be more than adequate, but it only takes one round with him before she realizes he's pulling his punches. He tells her it's because he "doesn't want to hit a dame, even when she's an assassin with the code name Black Widow". Stark is a no-go, he refuses to spar with her again outside his Iron Man suit after what she did to him last time, and Banner—well, that's just not a route even she is willing to take. She's restless and irritable and it's a dangerous pairing for someone like her.

She's been there for three days and Clint calls when she's walking down the hall on her way to the training room after breakfast. His first words when she puts the phone up to her ear are, "I'm cleared."

Tension drains out of Natasha and for the briefest moment, it crosses her mind that his impending final review might be the real reason for her unease, but she dismisses that notion. Still, she smiles at the good news and ignores the tangible relief that two techs passing her in the hallway show at her change in demeanor.

"Let's celebrate," she suggests.

There is sudden silence on the other end of the line, and then his voice is all wariness when he replies, "All right..."

She's confused by his reaction and then remembers that the last time they celebrated together, it involved eating painful amounts of shawarma and ended with her picking bloody glass splinters out of him in the infirmary for a good two hours. Her laugh is bright and clear and causes the IT guy from the 4th floor to double-take and trip over his own feet in surprise. "I promise that shawarma and forceps will not be involved."

"I heard that—sounds kinky," Tony Stark's voice comes over the P.A. speaker midway down the hall. When she shoots the accompanying hall camera a glare, his unrepentant voice adds, "Tell Legolas I said congrats."

"You get that?" she asks Clint.

"Even if I hadn't, his text just came through. When do you think you'll be able to make it down here?"

She tells him, "Soon."

He's been her partner long enough to know she means that literally. "See you tonight."

She catches an evening flight to Charlotte and it's just after nine that evening when she guides the rental car down the driveway.

The dog is lying on the front porch and as soon as her car comes into view, he hops to the ground and makes for the edge of the woods. Unlike the previous times, he does not vanish from sight. Instead, he pauses there, watching as she parks the car next to Clint's Bronco. One ear stands fully erect, the other flops half over, and the effect would be comical were it not for the tension and wariness projected by his entire physique. He's gained weight since she saw him last and now sinewy muscle stretches over his lean frame.

Clint comes outside when she's getting out of the car and watches as she gets her suitcase out, coming down the steps toward her. "I've got some pizza inside if you haven't eaten yet."

She nods and gestures toward the dog with her chin, "Why am I not surprised to see him still hanging around." The animal sits on his haunches to watch the two humans.

"Must be my animal magnetism," he shrugs nonchalantly.

"It is because you're feeding him."

"Well, that too."

They're nearly to the porch steps when the ground seems to give way beneath her foot and she lurches forward with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. Clint's hand snaps out to grab her elbow, steadying her. "I'm sorry, I totally forgot about the hole."

Pain shoots through her ankle, but with his help she manages to stay upright. "The hole," she repeats, looking down and sure enough, there's a hole dug right in the middle of the pathway leading from the driveway to the porch. "Are you laying land mines or trip wires," she asks, tone dry to disguise her wince as wryness.

"More like a Ghost landscaping project. I filled it in a few times but he kept emptying it out again, so I've just learned to avoid it. How's your foot?" he asks, and his warm hand is still providing extra support.

She tests her weight on the injured ankle. "I've had worse." It's true, but she's still breathing through her teeth with her jaw squared stiffly. The pain is obnoxious. It's not broken or she wouldn't be able to walk on it at all, but it's definitely a sprain, and she hates sprained ankles even more than she hates bullet wounds—they’re more limiting in her line of work. She distracts herself from the pain by seizing on what he's just said. "Ghost? Seriously?"

Clint shrugs and takes her luggage away from her, relieving her of the extra weight. "Thought about naming him Tiger because of the stripes, but I knew you'd never let us live that name down."

"You know me well." The thought of such a timid creature being designated with a name more appropriately applied to an animal far more dignified, confident and powerful is ridiculous enough that she almost forgets how bad her foot hurts, until she tries to go up the porch steps. Biting back a curse, she upgrades 'sprain' to 'bad sprain' and pauses there, one hand clenching the railing and the other balled into a fist. She shoots the dog a glare for digging the hole in the first place, and he stands up, lowering his head in a curious gesture that can either be construed as deference or challenge. When he melts into the woods behind him a moment later, she decides that it's the former rather than the latter.

"Can you make it up the stairs or do you need a lift?"

Natasha scoffs and concentrates on getting up the next step. "Please, it's a twisted ankle, not a gunshot wound."

He seems to consider pushing the matter, but ends up responding agreeably, "Ok," and focuses on helping her the rest of the way inside.

By the time they make it inside, she can feel the tightness in her shoe and knows her ankle has already started swelling. Clint drops her suitcase by the door, walking her over to the recliner. When she sits down with an audible sigh of relief, he crouches down in front of her and his hands are gentle as he works the Jimmy Choo pump off her aching foot.

Sure enough, it's already starting to bruise and swell, and he looks up at her. " _This_ is your idea of a celebration?" he asks, quirking one eyebrow.

She smacks him upside the head for that one and he only laughs. A few minutes later, he's got her foot propped up on the ottoman with an ice pack to help with the swelling, and is digging through a travel bag in the hall closet in search of something.

"Aha!" he exclaims and emerges holding a tan wad of fabric in one hand, and a walking boot in the other. "Look, it's your old friend, Ace. He's been missing you."

Natasha stares balefully at the elastic bandage, but she knows it's a necessary evil. If she doesn't wrap her ankle and stay off of it for at least two weeks, she's at even greater risk of injuring it again. After carefully wrapping her ankle and easing the boot on before tightening the straps, he brings the pizza box over along with a couple of ice cold beers and they eat in comfortable silence.

When they're both finished, he gathers up the leftover pizza crusts and puts them into Ghost's empty dog dish, topping it off with a couple cups of dog food. Even though she really should stay off of her foot, when Clint goes out the front door and whistles, she gets up and hobbles over to watch through the glass.

The stray has learned that when this particular human appears with the silver bowl in his hand, food is eminent. Where before, the dog would only emerge from the woods if no one was outside, now he circles around the man at an anxious trot from a distance of five or six feet, pausing to lift his nose and scent the air. Clint has barely set the bowl down and taken a step away before the dog dives in. He watches the man walk away as he eats, and he's still not doing a whole lot of chewing before he swallows the kibble down, but there's less desperation than there had been two weeks prior.

Barton comes back inside and gives her a Look when he sees her standing there. She ignores it and gestures at the brindle dog with her chin, "He gets pretty close to you now."

"Yep. Making some good progress."

She nods once and asks, "So what's next?"

"What's next?" he repeats, "What do you mean, what's next?"

"Yes. What's your next plan of attack? You know, to make further progress in your... canine rehabilitation project."

He seems amused by her aggressive choice of words. "My next plan of attack, so to speak, is to keep feeding him, give him some more time getting used to me and who knows, eventually he'll probably let me touch him and..."

His optimism is so unrealistic, she can't stop herself from raising one eyebrow incredulously. "And... what? You think he's just going to suddenly decide that you're safe, that you're not out to hurt him? That you're not feeding him because you have some ulterior motive in mind? Riiiight, let me know how that works out," she gives a derisive snort and stares out the window, watching as Ghost eats the last pizza crust.

Clint rests his shoulder against the door jam and studies her face for a long moment before turning his attention to Ghost. The dog is giving the bowl a thorough licking to clear it of any crumbs before he meanders around the yard with his nose to the ground. Without looking at her, Barton asks, "So what would your recommended course of action be, then?"

She carefully considers the question. "He's not going to do any more than he absolutely has to. People have probably proven to him time and again that they're not to be trusted, and you just feeding him isn't going to change that anytime soon. At the same time, the dog is even more of a social creature than a human is. My point is, neither are psychologically wired to be alone for their entire life."

He shifts his gaze to her and his gray eyes are thoughtful. "No. I suppose we're not."

Natasha tilts her head, acknowledging his words, and continues, "Well, you can use that to your advantage. I think you are going to have to push him, a little at a time. Force the issue. Start with the food, he's grown used to eating and he won't want to give that up now, so make him work for it. Does he only come out when it's time to eat, or is he hanging around in general?"

"He's always around, now. If I'm outside, he's always there, watching me. He'll follow me around, from a safe distance of course. Say, fifteen or twenty feet, tops."

"He's curious, then. Wondering what your true motives are. It will probably continue, so long as you don't do anything to threaten him outright. You push the matter, you make him interact with you, I'm willing to bet that sooner or later he's going to accept you to some extent... grudgingly."

"Since when did you know so much about social behavior in dogs?" he asks with genuine curiosity.

"I don't know anything about social behavior in dogs." She lifts her chin, meeting his eyes. She lets the rest go unsaid; she knows what it's like to not have anyone to trust, and no other breathing creature on this earth knows that better than he.

The good humor fades from his face as he meets her eyes. "Fair enough," is all he says.

He tidies up the kitchen while she gimps around, getting ready for bed, before they say their respective goodnights.

The ankle sprain ruins any possibility of their usual morning sparring and parkour routine. When it's time to feed the dog, Clint carries the dish outside and places it on the ground a few feet away from the porch steps instead of out in the middle of the yard. Then to push the matter even further, he sits at the top of the stairs. Natasha hobbles outside and joins him.

The dog paces back and forth in a wide arch, unsettled by their continued presence and close proximity to the metal bowl. Lifting his nose, he scents the air to verify that there is indeed food in the dish and then licks his chops with anticipation.

"How long do you give it?" Clint asks.

"Fifteen minutes, tops," is her self-assured reply.

Ghost is uncertain how to proceed. The kibble is so close he can see it and smell it, but the humans are far too close to the bowl. He retreats to the edge of the woods, sitting on his haunches as he ponders his options. After a few moments, he seems to come to a decision and trots toward them. When he's about five feet away from the food dish, he stops and lowers his head in that curiously deferential manner Natasha has seen before. Then he lays his half-cocked ear back and lets loose with a short, inquiring bark.

Clint's eyebrows shoot upwards with surprise at the unexpected sound. "He's never done that before."

"He doesn't know what else to do."

The dog gives them another questioning woof, and then he bows, lowering his forelegs and chest to the ground, rump in the air and wags his thin bony tail. There's no aggression in his body language, just a simple question relayed in canine tongue. Bark? Why won't you two humans go back inside so I can eat my food in peace?

"We're not leaving, so if you want your food, you better eat it," Barton answers, gesturing at the kibble with his chin.

Standing again, the brindle stray cocks his head, his brow wrinkling and ears shifting into what can only be construed as a frown of dismay. He makes his displeasure known by barking again and turns to trot back to the edge of the woods, looking over his shoulder before he vanishes into the dappled treeline.

They wait.

Thirty-two seconds later, Ghost reappears. Patience clearly isn't one of his virtues. He gives them a few more woofs of protest as he trots around, but it's lost on neither of them that despite his obvious disapproval at their presence, he's edging ever closer to the food dish. After a couple of minutes of that, he stops, his dark suspicious gaze going from the food dish to where they are seated on the porch and back again, and he stretches out his entire body toward the food. Then he startles at absolutely nothing and takes off at a run for the woods.

It takes him a few seconds to recover from that and he sits on his haunches a second time to weigh risk versus reward. Reward wins out big judging from the drool dangling from his jowls, and he gradually works his way closer to the food dish. He gets close enough for his chin to brush the edge of the metal bowl but that scares him too and he runs off again.

The third time is the charm—he actually manages to grab a mouthful of food before he darts away. But he retreats less and less each time until he finally just ends up reaching out with his entire body, his legs stretched out behind him and his chest nearly touching the ground so he can gobble down the kibble. He watches them the entire time for any sign of a threat and when the bowl is empty, he withdraws to the forest again, though not without a backward glance.

Clint gives Natasha a sidelong glance and she shrugs. "Like I said, push him. Get him out of his comfort zone. Who knows where it might lead."

"Get him out of his comfort zone," he echoes, his expression inscrutable. "All right, I can do that."


	4. Chapter 4

Ghost is grudgingly accepting the new feeding routine, though he still gets no closer to them than he absolutely has to. She and Clint chat while the dog eats, because there's no point in getting him used to being in close proximity if the sound of their voices makes him flee with fear.

Late morning, Nat is sitting in the Lazyboy, foot propped up while thumbing through the newest issue of _Soldier of Fortune_. There's a particular advertisement for free-lance work that's caught her eye in the classifieds section at the back of the magazine, and she's seriously debating giving the number a call.

Clint is tweaking an arrow from his specialized quiver at the kitchen table with renewed purpose, now that he's is on standby and available for S.H.I.E.L.D. missions again. "Don't bother with the ad. FBI's fishing again, trying to lure in wannabe hitmen again."

She lowers the magazine to look in his direction with wry amusement. "You called the number?"

"A few of days ago." He seems a little too focused on measuring the arrowhead with calipers and it doesn't go unnoticed.

"Clint?"

He gives her a small shrug, tucking the calipers back into their leather case. "I figured it wouldn't hurt to have a back-up plan. Just in case I tanked the final review."

Natasha sniffs. "Not even S.H.I.E.L.D. is that stupid."

Slanting her a sidelong glance, he observes with the barest hint of a smile, "This seems kind of backwards, you having more faith in them than I do."

Her faith is not in them and he should know that by now. She flips back through the magazine, finding the whole notion vaguely amusing. Years before, when he had first extended the offer, back then she could not imagine what it would be like to work in S.H.I.E.L.D. with him. Now she can't imagine what the agency would be like without him.

The ibuprofen is starting to wear off, and she's growing bored with doing nothing other than sitting around. She pointedly ignores the fact that she's often quite content doing just that when she comes to visit Clint. "So, are we going to celebrate your continued gainful employment or what?" Natasha tosses the magazine aside and gives him an expectant look.

He pauses to look at her with raised eyebrows. "Did you have something particular in mind?"

"It's nearly lunchtime. Wherever you want to go, it's my treat, so long as it's not fast food. Or shawarma."

Laughing, he tells her, "This is North Carolina. I am pretty sure we are the only two people in the state who even know what shawarma is, so that shouldn't be a concern."

Fifteen minutes later, they are on their way. The dog hops back up onto the porch as soon as the doors to Clint's Bronco close and perches there, watching them drive away. It takes another forty-five minutes to get to the restaurant, which claims to be a 'roadhouse'. Her ankle is hurting like hell, so she accepts his offered arm. Once inside, she discovers that the only difference between a roadhouse and a run of the mill Carolina steakhouse seems to be that in roadhouses, you can throw trash on the floor—peanut shells, specifically—without getting kicked out.

The jukebox, hardwood benches, barrel of peanuts and neon beer signs are part of the decor, and despite her initial impressions, the staff is friendly and courteous. They're seated almost immediately and when the waiter brings their drinks, he also brings out a basket of piping hot yeast rolls. After ordering, Clint excuses himself to wash his hands. She's buttering her second roll and he still hasn't returned. The path to the restroom goes by both the bar and the jukebox, and she turns to see if he's detoured by either of those.

It's neither music nor beer that have him distracted, but a young woman. The blonde is familiar and Natasha is excellent at facial recognition. It's an integral part of her skill set because assassinating the wrong target is bad for business. A moment later she remembers where she's seen the blonde before—at the grocery store nearest to Clint's house, fawning over him. It seems the girl is picking up right where she left off, all flirtatious gestures and coy laughing.

He is smiling but when he catches Nat's curious gaze, he politely extricates himself and makes his way back to the booth. Once he's seated again, he grabs a few peanuts from the small bucket on the table and begins to shell them.

Natasha glances over to where the girl has rejoined her own table companion. The two girls are leaning in close to each other, glancing toward Clint and whispering together like co-conspirators. "Did she follow us here?" she asks, amused.

Tossing a peanut into his mouth, Clint replies, "I doubt it. Following me this far would be pretty extreme, even for Lori."

"She's been following you?" Concealing her surprise, Nat levels a second glance at the young woman, this one more assessing.

"If you want to call it that, sure. I always seem to bump into her when I'm in town, even when she's not working," he explains. "Then again, it is a small town."

Now she sees the angle. "Ah, so she is creating opportunity, trying to get you to ask her out."

"Yep."

"So? Why haven't you asked her out?"

He shrugs, sweeping the peanut shells off the table and onto the floor with one smooth motion. "Not really interested."

Natasha peers over at Lori and her friend again before looking at him. "Why not? She's just your type."

Clint looks like he's wavering between laughter and indignation. "Is that really what you think my type is?" he asks, incredulous.

Taking a sip of her drink, she says, "She's petite, cute and blonde. What's not to like?" In her experience, any two of those three characteristics was more than enough to land a woman pretty much any man she wanted.

He slices open one of the yeast rolls and butters it, "I'll grant you that for the vast majority of men, myself included, that is our type until we want something more serious. They're petite, so it makes us feel bigger and more masculine, they're cute, so they're easy to look at without having to worry about personality, and they're blonde, so they're probably dumb enough that they don't care we're only with them for the first two reasons."

"You better hope that Pepper Potts never hears any portion of this conversation."

"Pepper would agree with me. Besides, she would know exactly what I'm talking about, because she watched Tony Stark date women like that for years before he finally wised up and saw what was right in front of him. Anyway, I'm past that insecure stage in my life and have been for a while now. This may come as a surprise to you, but now I prefer my women with a little more..." he pauses, searching for the right word, and then looks at her when he finds it, "...substance."

And maybe it's just in the way he says it but she suddenly thinks he's already got someone in mind. The waiter's arrival with their food saves him from her questioning, for now at least.

Her meal is some kind of Southwestern style mesquite salmon with black beans and corn layered over the top. She's genuinely surprised by how good it is. Granted, she's had better food at shadier looking establishments, but she's also had far worse at high end restaurants. Clint is eating prime rib with au jus and she can't help wondering if it tastes anywhere near as delicious as it looks.

After she's knocked the edge off of her hunger, she says, "Clint, I'm not going to tell you your business, especially not when it comes to personal matters, but you know as well as I do that in our line of work, getting involved with someone for more than a casual fling carries a certain degree of risk. It leaves us more vulnerable, more open to being compromised."

"I am aware of that," he stares down at his plate when he talks, focused on cutting off a bite of meat and dipping it into the au jus. "It's just, I don't know, it's like the whole thing with Loki put things into perspective. What I do know is this—I don't want to spend the rest of my life avoiding getting into a meaningful relationship with someone I care about because I'm afraid of what might happen."

She can tell by his implacable tone that this is not something she will get him to see reason on. Giving a slight nod to acknowledge his determination, she alters course, asking, "Does she know how you feel? For that matter, does she even know what you do for a living?"

His gaze flicks up to her face and slides away, but not before she gets the impression that he's amused by her line of questioning. "I don't think she's figured out how I feel about her just yet, but she's smart. I imagine she'll put two and two together soon enough. And yes, she knows what I do. And she knows what I've done." His meaning is obvious. Whoever this mystery woman is, she not only knows that Clint is an assassin, but has full knowledge of what happened when he was under the god Loki's control.

Which can only mean one thing. "She works for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Clint doesn't answer, just looks at her across the table from over his glass when he takes a sip of soda. His reaction is as good as a yes.

There's a very short list of women she's seen Clint interact with at the agency, especially since the Loki incident, and Natasha's thoughts keep circling back to one individual—Maria Hill. And it's not that Maria isn't a great agent and capable second in command to Nick Fury, it's just that she is very... clinical. The woman is attractive, yes, and she supposes some men might find her beautiful. But Maria has passion for her work and little else. She really can't see the pair lasting long term as a couple. But again, she reminds herself, it's not really her business.

"I know what you are thinking, and it's not her," he tells her, his grey eyes brimming with humor.

She can't help her curiosity. "Are you going to tell me who it is?"

He grins outright at that. "What, and ruin the surprise? No way." Changing the subject, he extends a forkful of juicy pink meat toward her, "Here, try some prime rib. I'm tired of you ogling my food."

"I was not ogling your food," she responds, giving him an icy glare before eating the tidbit off of his offered fork automatically. It is indeed as good as it looks, with an excellent blend of flavor and texture. The abrupt subject change indicates that the relationship conversation, if it can even be called that, is over. Natasha happens to glance over at Lori's table and finds that the blonde is staring daggers at her. She finds that a little confusing, since up until now the girl has been all but ignoring her presence. However, she is unimpressed because she's been glowered at by far worse, up to and including the Hulk. So she nods once at the other woman to let her know that her dislike has been duly noted and then turns her attention back to Clint.

The rest of the meal passes uneventfully with no further discussion centered around Clint's dating life or lack thereof. They head back home and when the vehicle pulls into the drive, Ghost is standing on the porch wagging his thin bony tail with steady sweeps side to side. "He's happy you've come home," Nat comments, surprised that the dog is already showing such obvious signs of affection.

"Yeah, he's been doing that for about a week now when I come down the driveway. I'm not so sure that he's happy to see me just yet as he is pleased that he's not alone anymore. I don't think he even realizes his tail is wagging."

They both get out of the SUV and the brindle dog jumps down and circles around them, following them from a distance of about six feet. They go inside and he reclaims his spot on the edge of the porch and lays down again, watching them through the front door.

Natasha's ankle is throbbing with pain so she takes three ibuprofen, props her foot up in the Lazyboy and reclines back to watch TV. He's back to tinkering with his arrows but is in the garage now and she nods off to the droning voice of a BBC News anchor. The distinct thud of arrows hitting a target wakes her up some time later. She limps over to the door and looks out but neither man nor dog is anywhere to be seen. Knowing she's already walked on the sprained ankle too much today, she resists the urge to go outside and sits back down with her cell phone to check messages and emails.

An hour or so later, Clint comes inside, cleans up and cooks stir fry for supper. They eat again, sit outside with Ghost while he eats, and then return to the living room. He sprawls out on the couch watching some sitcom while she thumbs through the romantic poetry book.

She is only half-heartedly paying attention to the TV, but when two of the characters go out on a date together, there is something about it that draws her eye. The couple are eating supper at an upscale restaurant, and at one point, the woman shares a portion of her food with the man, extending it across the table toward the man so he can eat it straight off of her fork. Watching it, she is struck by how simple and yet intimate the gesture seems and abruptly she understands why Lori was scowling at her from the other side of the roadhouse. Closing the poetry book, Natasha rises in one swift motion and goes to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

As she sits down on the bed, it occurs to her that like Ghost, she is running away from something she doesn't quite understand. She replays the conversation from lunch in her head and can't believe that she didn't pick up on his clues. No wonder he had seemed so amused by the entire subject. And it's not that she doesn't find him sexually attractive or interesting, it's just that, well he's an assassin. Dangerous, deadly, and far too reckless at times. So obviously it's an impossible situation, even though she may have the tiniest inclination that it might be otherwise.

There's only one logical response, so she goes back into the living room to make sure they are both on the same page in this matter.

He has turned off the TV and is now sitting up on the couch, his elbows on his knees. Turning his head, he watches her hobble over and sit beside him, leaving exactly six inches of space between her side and his.

"Clint," she says evenly, as though she never got up and fled the room. In truth, she didn't really flee, it was more of a strategic retreat.

"Natasha."

They both stare straight ahead at the dark TV screen and she states the obvious. "We'd make a terrible couple."

"Would we." And somehow he's made it sound somewhere between a dubious question and doubtful statement.

"Look at how we live, and what we do. At any given time, either one of us could be sent to the other side of the world for who knows how long. What couple is going to be able to maintain any degree of normalcy under such circumstances?"

He inclines his head a tiny amount and then says, "I'm not sure about you, but I think I gave up on 'normal' somewhere between the God Thor crash-landing in New Mexico and the alien invasion in New York City."

This is not going as well as she had anticipated. Natasha purses her lips and reminds him, "I'm a killer. And so are you."

"Yes. We do have a lot in common, don't we." Somehow he's managed to turn what should have been a con into a pro.

She frowns. "It would never work between us."

"How do you know?" He looks at her for the first time since she sat down beside him, and his grey eyes are intent. "How do you know that for certain without even giving it a try?"

Her throat works as she struggles to word her response, but then her phone rings and she's not sure whether she should be relieved or irritated by the interruption. They both stare at the mobile device where it is sitting on the end table and then Clint gets up and retrieves it, holding it out for her to take. "Romanov," she answers, her eyes meeting his when she speaks.

"Something's come up and I need you in Argentina by noon tomorrow." It's Fury.

"Yes sir." She immediately gets to her feet and her ankle almost gives way beneath her, reminding her of the injury. Hating that she has to do it, she sinks back down to the couch and informs Nick, "Sir, I should inform you that I sprained my ankle yesterday. If this assignment is going to require a lot of moving around, I'll just end up being a liability."

There is silence on the other end of the line, and then he says, "Put Barton on."

Wordlessly she hands the archer the phone, and he puts it to his ear. "Barton here...yes...Yes, sir, I'm ready to go." He pauses, glances at his watch. "I can be ready to fly out of Charlotte in an hour and a half...Yes sir... thank you, I won't let you down."

Clint gives her back the phone and looks down at the floor, picking up their prior conversation right where it left off. "Nat, you act like you think that I haven't thought all of this through, like I haven't gone over all the pros and cons in my head. Believe me, I have. It's been on my mind for months—maybe even years—but I ignored it because it was easier to just stick to the status quo and not rock the boat. But I'm tired of doing that. And maybe you're right, maybe we would make a terrible couple, but we'll never know unless we try. If you want things to remain as they are, I'm fine with that because above all else, you're my friend, my best friend, and I don't want to do anything to screw that up." He seems to be on the verge of saying more and she can't remember the last time he said so much in one long burst of words.

She wets her lips and says carefully, "I think that it's best we keep things as they are. For both our sakes."

Unsurprised by her response, he sighs, nods, then gives her a lopsided grin. "See, like I said, you're smart. You figured it out. Will you take care of my dog while I'm gone?"

"Of course." It's not like she has anything better to do while her ankle heals, other than second guess her decision.

"Thank you."


	5. Chapter 5

It is strange, staying at Clint's house without him there. She has been there numerous times and knows she is welcome but for the first time she feels ill at ease, like an unwanted guest or an intruder, despite the fact that he's left her the keys. As cliche as it is, his presence is everywhere, in the simple rustic furnishings, the sizable collection of handmade arrows on the wall, and the single Coney Island Circus poster that harkens back to the life he led before joining S.H.I.E.L.D. The house even smells like him, wood and spice cut by the bittersweet scent of the glue he uses on his arrow fletching.

It takes Ghost most of the day to realize that the archer is gone. The Ford Bronco is in the driveway like it usually is because Clint chose to drive Nat's rental car back to Charlotte. But when she feeds him, the fact that the man is not present too is enough to break the dog's routine, and make him even more hesitant and nervous about eating. He finally finishes and she goes back inside.

Later that evening, she's sitting at the kitchen counter rereading the dossier of an up and coming Southeast Asian crime boss that Fury has his eye on. She happens to glance over at the door and the dog is sitting outside on the welcome mat, peering this way and that through the glass door, trying to catch sight of Clint. "He's not here," she tells the dog.

He doesn't believe her, because he cranes his neck even further to the side, trying to see down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

She is having some embarrassing difficulties of her own adjusting to Barton's absence. It's not that she misses him—nothing of the sort—but living in his house alone just feels wrong. It's a home, but it's not _her_ home, and if anything, it reminds her of the fact that she really doesn't have one. She's got her ship quarters on the Helicarrier and the exorbitant suite at the Avengers Tower courtesy of Tony Stark, but those are functionally little more than layover stops. For the first thirty-six hours after Clint leaves, she is meticulous about leaving no signs of her presence in the house to a ridiculous degree. She forces herself to stop when she realizes that she's working harder to hide traces of herself in his home than she did at the 'chemical accident' scene in Belarus.

The drizzle that falls the next day perfectly suits her mood. Ghost gets to eat without her watching, because there's no way she's sitting outside with him in the rain. Ignoring the light rain showers, he curls into a ball underneath the large oak tree, keeping his head angled so that he can see the front door.

In between reading S.H.I.E.L.D. documents, listening to classical music, and keeping an eye out for any unusual news reports centered in Argentina, Natasha replays the conversation with Clint over and over in her mind. She can't believe she didn't pick up on the change in his feelings for her prior to that night. He's been physically attracted to her since they first met—few men aren’t—but he has never treated her with anything other than integrity and honesty.

The memory of the one and only time she ever tried to sleep with him is as clear in her mind as though it had happened yesterday instead of seven years prior. They've just finished a mission in Berlin and have a brief period of downtime at the hotel before they're supposed to catch the flight back to the United States. Fury had called and said from that point forward, she was cleared for solo missions instead of having to partner with another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Her next assignment would be a solo black op in Krakow.

The agency had taken far less time to trust her with solitary missions than she ever would have imagined given her history, and she knew that Agent Barton was the reason why. So she decided to… well she's not really sure if it was meant as a 'Thank you' or what, but found herself in his suite wearing nothing but a silk negligee. After slipping into his bed to straddle him, she ran her palms over the warm, hard flesh of his chest and downward to tug at the waistband of his boxer briefs. She kissed him one time before he broke it off, gently taking her hands in his and drawing them away from his body. "I am not your job, and this is not happening," he told her with something approaching resignation.

It had been so long since she'd felt embarrassed that it took her a few moments to identify the emotion. By then, he was out of the bed and had pulled a t-shirt on over his head, commenting, "I need a drink. You want something?" Without waiting for her answer, he went straight for the mini bar.

At a loss as to what else to do, she followed him into the kitchenette and leaned against the tiny counter, watching in silence while he pulled out a bottle of vodka, poured himself a shot and tossed it back. Then he wordlessly refilled the small glass before offering it to her. They both proceeded to get roaring drunk, and never spoke about it again.

Since the whole ordeal with Loki, he's been more introspective and not nearly as quick to laugh, but he hasn't really acted any different around her, or like anything has changed. Then her wayward thoughts snag on something he said. _It's been on my mind for months—maybe even years, but I ignored it._ And that's got her wondering if maybe his feelings _haven't_ changed. Maybe he's felt this way all along, from the very beginning and she just didn't see it.

It's a disturbing thought, that the entire time they've known each other, he may have been harboring these emotions and she was oblivious to it. If he'd just slept with her when she'd offered way back then, he'd probably have gotten it all out of his system and she'd have... Natasha cuts that thought off before it finishes. For the first time, with the benefit of hindsight, she lets herself consider what would have happened if he done just that. The sex would have probably been fantastic, yes, but it would not have lasted and she would never have befriended him to the extent she has over the years. Instead, she would have categorized him the same way she had done every other man she'd ever slept with, as someone who viewed sex and physical intimacy as a form of currency. In her experience, people who relied on that medium of exchange could be bought—or sold—for nothing more than a wiggle and a kiss.

Clint Barton was the only man to have ever turned Natasha Romanoff down. By that point, she'd been in S.H.I.E.L.D long enough that she was positive he wasn't gay—she’d seen him with enough casual flings to divest her of that notion. In the end, she decided that for the first time, she had finally met someone who cared more about his job and duty than he did a quick lay.

It was a novel concept at the time.

But now... now she realizes that it was _her_ he had cared about, not his job or his sense of professionalism.

Her foot is feeling better, but all of these thoughts have her headache steaming right along like a freight train. She's running out of ibuprofen and Clint's refrigerator is low on eggs, milk and fresh vegetables, so she decides a trip to the store is warranted. It's not until she steps outside and takes a deep breath in the damp fresh air that she realizes how claustrophobic she had been feeling.

It's still drizzling rain and upon seeing her, Ghost moves to sit in the middle of the yard to watch her. She stares back at him and says, "You know, you could go under the porch and stay dry instead of sitting out in the rain." It's not until she gets down the steps and glances backwards that she figures out why the dog prefers sleeping in the yard on the wet grass—the soft dirt under the porch turns into a mud bog when it rains. Perhaps the animal is not as stupid as she thought.

Or not. The dog looks at her and at the front door expectantly, waiting for Clint to appear.

The Bronco is oversized and old and surprisingly fun to drive, especially through the large puddles on the sides of the roads because the tires send out ridiculous sized sprays of water. Once in the store, she shops with her usual efficiency, getting the things she needs and nothing more. It's nearly five pm and the store is fairly busy by small town standards. There are four checkout lanes open, and the one with the shortest line is being manned by none other than Lori. Natasha gets into her lane, putting her groceries up on the conveyer belt while waiting for the old lady in front of her to count out exact change.

Lori surreptitiously eyes her from beneath her eyelashes and shuts her register drawer with a little more force than necessary before ripping off the receipt to give to the old woman. She starts ringing up Natasha's things while a boy at the end of the lane sorts and bags her groceries. Neither woman speaks at first, and then the cashier tests the waters, saying, "So Clint said that you two work together?"

"We do," Natasha replies, getting two twenty dollar bills out of her slim wallet in anticipation of the checkout total.

"Have you known him a while then?" Lori asks casually as though she doesn't care about the response, but her intent expression is a clear giveaway.

"Yes."

The blonde seems to be waiting for further info, and when none is forthcoming, her brow furrows with irritation. "That'll be thirty-nine fourteen," Lori tells her.

Natasha hands over the money and forces herself not to roll her eyes when the girl makes it a point to check both bills with the counterfeit marking pen.

While counting out the coins, Lori asks, "So can I ask you a personal question?"

It's obvious that's a rhetorical question, so the red-headed woman just waits, holding out her hand for the change and receipt.

"Is Clint gay?" There's something petty and cruel in the girl's features when she drops the money into her hands.

Natasha tucks the change into the zippered compartment in her wallet. "Oh believe me, he's _definitely_ not gay." Her smile is serene with the confidence that can only come from first-hand knowledge of such things. "He's just not interested."

The blonde's face turns bright red.

A strangled sound comes from the bagboy's direction but he has hurriedly turned away to hide his expression. It takes him a moment to compose himself and when the freckle-faced kid turns back toward them, his eyes are bright with barely restrained mirth when he says, "I'll help you outside with this, ma'am." She doesn't really need the help, but the boy's already pushing her cart toward the door.

"Bitch," Lori mutters nastily, and Natasha's grin broadens before she limps out the door after her groceries.

The rain seems to have stopped for now and the boy has slowed and is waiting just beyond the sliding glass doors. He's not laughing now, and when she reaches him, he says, "I'm sorry ma'am. She ought not to have said that to you. I'll tell the shift manager when I go back in."

Natasha waves her hand, unconcerned. "Don't worry about it. Believe me, I've been called much worse by much worse."

They walk to the Bronco together and it's clear he recognizes the vehicle as belonging to Clint, but to his credit, doesn't ask any questions, just loads up the groceries and thanks her.

When she gets back to the house, Ghost is up on the porch. The dog lays back his ears and wags his tail at the sight of the Bronco pulling down the drive, then jumps down and trots eagerly toward it. The expression of dismay and chagrin on his canine face when she emerges without Clint is almost comical. He circles the navy vehicle, sniffing the wet gravel, and shoots her dirty looks like he thinks she's trying to play a mean trick on him.

By the time she's got the groceries put away, the sun has chased the clouds away and the air is crisp and clean. Supper consists of salad with chicken, almonds and craisins with white wine to drink, and she eats outside at the porch table. The dog watches, the smell of the food tempting him to approach to within a few feet, so against her better judgment, she tosses a small chunk of chicken at him. Ghost reacts as though she's thrown a live grenade, wild-eyed and contorting his body to twist away before it touches the ground.

His overreaction is surprising until it occurs to her that he's probably accustomed to humans throw far more unpleasant things at him like rocks and sticks and who knows what else. After five minutes of scenting the air and pacing around to verify that it indeed edible and not a rock, he finally eats the meat.

There is only one bite of chicken left and this time she places it on the edge of the porch. It only takes him a few moments to take the food with surprising delicacy before he shifts away from her again. She carries her salad bowl inside and returns with the dog dish, placing it at the bottom of the stairs while she reclaims her chair.

Ghost eats his kibble, watching the front door with that same expectation he's been showing for the past two days. When he's finished, he starts to wander around the yard with his nose to the ground as though tracking a scent. The elusive trail leads him from the porch to the garage, around by the grill pit and then to the work shop. It's only when the brindle dog goes so far as to jump up on the Bronco, his paws leaving muddy prints on the door when he peers inside the vehicle, that she understands what he is doing—he’s looking for Clint.

He approaches her, makes a low questioning sound in his throat.

"I told you, he's not here."

The dog still does not believe her. He slips into the forest and if she had a clear view of his shifting form among the wood and underbrush, she knows he'd be looking up into the trees for any sign of the archer. A short while later, he emerges, heaves a dejected sigh and lays down with his head across his forelegs.

Natasha isn't quite ready to go inside for the evening. It's hard enough to avoid thinking about all of this ludicrous relationship business when she is not in the house surrounded by _him_. So she cleans her weapons and browses files and websites on her tablet and very pointedly does not think about him, and especially doesn't think about them together. Except when she does. It is all very distracting and frustrating, and it's only been two days since he left but she is desperate to get back to New York and the Avenger tower where the only messy feeling stuff tends to involve Stark being upset because Bruce Banner won't Hulk out unless there's a national emergency or alien invasion.

Ghost is the only warning she has. He is dozing and suddenly leaps to his feet, looking skyward before he darts off for the woods in a near panic. A few seconds later, a red and gold streak flashes down and lands heavily in the yard.

Tony Stark flips back the Iron Man mask and gives her a broad smile. "Natasha! Fancy seeing you here. I was in the neighborhood, figured I'd drop in." He glances down at his armored feet, which have sank a good three inches into the soft damp earth due to the weight of the suit. "Though I admit I didn't anticipate dropping quite this deep."

"Stark, this is rural Appalachia," she retorts with dry patience, "Most people don't categorize the entire eastern seaboard as 'in the neighborhood'."

"Well that's because they lack a global mind like my own." Stark looks around, taking in the rustic setting and sun setting over the lake beyond the house. "I like this place. A bit small for my tastes, but that's not surprising. Where's Legolas?" he asks and takes a step toward the porch, his large boot leaving one crater behind and creating another.

"He's working, and I'm sure he would appreciate it if you didn't leave any more trenches in the yard than you already have," she gestures at the ground.

"He's working? Wait, did he go do after that weapons shipment in Argentina? I figured Fury would have tapped you for that, not him. Not that I would have any knowledge whatsoever of top secret S.H.I.E.L.D. missions or anything like that." He coughs with blatant false modesty and his large dark eyes are as analytical as ever when he regards her, "So what're you still doing here?"

It shouldn't have mattered, but the notion that Tony Stark knows more about Clint's current mission than she does is particularly galling. "I sprained my ankle in a hole—not  unlike the ones you're leaving all over the yard—and I'm recuperating until I'm fit for duty again."

He runs his eyes over her, noting the walking boot. "Ok, I get that you hurt your ankle, and I get that as a result of that, you can't do all that ninja rubber band bendy fighting stuff that you do. What I don't get is why you are recuperating _here_ , alone, instead of on the Helicarrier or at the Tower." Jerking his head back, his eyes widen. "Wait... are you and Legolas finally together? Like 'together'," his metal hands rise to form air quotes for added emphasis, "as in vertical jogging? Riding the bologna pony? Because I gotta say, it's about damn time. I swear, you two are like a married couple, only completely without the sex, which if you ask me is a total waste of time and money when you get right down to it because everyone knows that the sex is the best part and..."

Natasha forces herself not to grind her teeth together and interrupts, "Agent Barton and I are not together," and as soon as the words leave her mouth she knows she's going to regret it.

Tony's gaze sharpens. "Oh, so it's 'Agent Barton' now. I see."

And it's a testament to how disconcerting Clint's revelation has really been because for the first time in years, the Black Widow struggles to keep her fraying emotions from unraveling. She draws in a steady, even breath and opts for the simple truth, "Clint has a dog and since my injury would have limited my duties anyway, asked if I would take care of him while he was gone on assignment." She gives him an equally speculative look, because if Tony is flying around and randomly dropping in on people just to say 'hi', there's something else going on. "Why are _you_ here? Are you hiding from Pepper again?"

"Legolas has a dog? I love dogs! Where is it? What breed? Listen, you may not believe this, but dogs love me too." Tony is avoiding her question, which is a clear indication that her guess is right on the money.

"You scared him off with your big entrance. He's afraid of people—especially loud, noisy metal men with repulsers in their hands and rockets in their feet." She gives him a pointed look.

Her phone rings and they both look at it. A familiar number is showing on caller id, and Natasha picks it up, saying warmly, "Hi Pepper."

"I'm not here!" Tony says in a loud whisper.

"Hi, Tasha. Is Tony there with you?" Pepper gets straight to the point as usual—it’s one of the reasons she and Natasha get along so well.

"As a matter of fact, he is here," she shifts her green eyes to Stark, who throws his hands up with exasperation and mutters something about J.A.R.V.I.S. being a sellout. "Would you like to speak to him?"

"That won't be necessary. Just tell him that if he's not in Atlanta within the next twenty minutes, he's going to be having twelve percent of a moment. For the next year."

Natasha has no idea what the message means, but when she relays the words to Tony, it seems as though he blanches a little. "Whoops. That's my cue. Gotta go!" He flips down his face mask and launches skyward almost immediately, disappearing in a roar of sound.

"He's on his way. So how're you? It's been a few weeks since I last saw you."

Pepper sighs, "Tasha, I am so tired of trying to convince idiots about the benefits of arc reactor technology and that reached a new low here in Atlanta. I really could use a vacation. Speaking of vacation, how's yours going? Tell Clint I said 'hi'!"

After Clint, Virginia 'Pepper' Potts is the closest thing to a friend Natasha has. Despite the differences in their occupations, they are both women in fields that are dominated by men and that alone was enough to create a common bond between them. Plus, no one is better than Pepper at keeping Tony Stark in line, a task that would try the patience of a saint. Smiling, Natasha replies, "This isn't really a vacation so much as it is an extended weekend. And I'll tell him when he gets back, he's working right now."

"Oh! I wasn't aware that you stayed at his place when he was out of town."

Natasha traces the molding of the porch table with her fingernail, keeping her tone deliberately casual, "Usually I don't, but I sprained my ankle and Clint has a dog now and asked me to look after him since I had a bit of downtime."

"Ouch on the sprained ankle, I hope it gets better soon. Did you say Clint got a dog? I wouldn't think that'd be a wise decision given the kind of work you two do, aren't you away for weeks at a time on occasion?"

Relieved that someone agrees with her on that subject, Tasha nods, "Yes, it's not unheard of for us to be gone that long, but for some reason I don't think he's going to agree with me."

"Well, maybe you can talk him into taking it back where he got it from, surely he realizes it'll be better for the dog in the long term."

"Well, that's the thing, he didn't go out and get the dog, it just showed up around his house. Half-starved, looking for scraps, terrified of people." Natasha thinks back to how the dog had looked when she first saw it, and corrects, "Beyond starved, in fact. It looked like a canine version of a concentration camp survivor. It's grown quite attached to him since he started caring for it though." The subject of their current conversation is emerging from the woods, casting wary glances toward the sky.

Pepper gasps, appalled. "That sounds horrible! Well, in that case, good for him for taking care of the poor thing. If it comes down to it, he can leave it at Avengers Tower when he goes out on jobs, I'm sure we can work something out, get one of the interns or techs to care for it."

It's a laughable notion, because Natasha is one hundred percent certain that Ghost is going to feel the same way about Avenger Tower as she did about the Helicarrier when Clint first brought her into S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Listen, I've got to get to this banquet or I'll never hear the end of it, and Tony should be here any minute," Pepper is saying. "Natasha, call me when you're in New York again, we can meet up for lunch."

"Sounds good. Enjoy the banquet. Tell Stark I can't wait to see him again." She lets the barest hint of sarcasm drip from her words.

After ending the call, Natasha watches the dog approach the depressions Iron Man's feet have left behind. For the first time, she wonders what circumstances led to him crossing paths with Clint. Was he born feral or abandoned? He had to have been surviving on his own for weeks to have reached the level of starvation he was at when she first saw him. She is sure of one thing—Clint Barton was the first human to treat the dog with kindness and compassion instead of anger and disgust.

He has a soft spot for certain strays and she knows this because she was one, a long time ago. Like Ghost, she had been teetering on the brink of life and death—not from starvation or the petty cruelty of others, but from the consequences of her own actions. Natasha still does not know what made the archer choose to stay his hand instead of killing her, but he was the first person to treat her with integrity and, yes, with kindness. Back then, she had been positive that it was a ploy, that there was no way this American with his boyish good looks and simple honesty could be for real. In fact, she had actually joined S.H.I.E.L.D. to prove to herself that he was fake and manipulative, the same as everyone else she had encountered in her young life.

To her shock, not only was Clint as genuine as he seemed, he had introduced her to a second person who was equally sincere and principled—Phil Coulson. It caused a significant shift in her perception of reality.

Natasha comes out of her reverie when Ghost slips up the stairs on the opposite end of the porch. He goes to the door again, checking for any sign of Clint, and gives a low worried whine.

"He'll be back soon," she reassures the dog, but now that it matters, now that there is so much more going on emotionally between them than she had planned for or anticipated, she can't help but wonder if this mission, out of the many he's done over the years, will be the one that he does not make it home from. Without warning, she is seized by foreboding so intense it nearly eclipses how she felt upon receiving that call in Kiev, when Coulson told her, "Barton's been compromised."

"He'll be back soon," she repeats, and doesn't know if she's saying it for the dog's sake or her own. The mosquitoes are coming out in droves, and Natasha is either going to have to light one of the citronella candles or retreat indoors. She opts for the latter, gathering her tablet and phone, and limps back inside. It's not her home, but right now that doesn't matter, because his presence is everywhere and envelopes her like a blanket and for now, it is enough.

 


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a gorgeous afternoon and Natasha is sitting out on the steps, idly eating an apple while watching a pair of cardinals chirp at each other at the bird feeder. 

Clint’s been gone for nine days now, the walking boot is gone and only the barest twinge of pain is felt when she puts weight on her ankle. She is still pacing herself in regards to exercise and conditioning, but expects that by the end of the week, she will be back in fighting form again.

Ghost is the middle of the yard sprawled out sunbathing, and while it might look like he’s out cold, the dog is even better at sleeping with one eye open than she is. He’s content to lay in peace while she eats her apple, but if she were to shift ever so minutely toward him, he’d be up and ready to run for cover. He is vigilant to the point of paranoia, and she has no doubt it’s why he has survived so long—it’s done the same for her. But where her instincts are fight, his are flight. She retreats reluctantly, and uses the time to plan another attack; the dog always chooses to run instead of standing his ground, or at least he does when it comes to humans. The half-eaten squirrel drawing flies in the grass a few feet away from where he lays is a clear indication that he does not run from all his battles, and she has little doubt that if he were cornered and given no other option, he’d fight. All survivors do. 

Her phone rings and true to form, Ghost is in the woods before the cardinals make it from the bird feeder to the nearest tree. When she sees ‘Caller Unknown’ on the mobile’s display, she ignores her quickened pulse and tells herself that the extra moment it takes to answer is because she’s swallowing down that last bit of apple, not because she feels the need to compose herself. “Hello,” she answers, setting the half eaten apple down on the porch beside her.

Clint cheerfully asks, “You haven’t shot my dog, have you?” 

“Not yet, no. Neutered him instead.”

“You what?” 

His tone changes from good humor to abject horror so quickly that she almost bursts out in uncharacteristic laughter. “Well, I thought it was for the best, really. If you let him go as is, you could have a whole pack of strays to care for in a matter of months, and one is quite enough. It’s simple population control, Clint,” she continues with clinical detachment, but her face hurts with the effort it’s taking not to smile. 

There is silence on the other end of the line as he weighs logic against the typical male attachment to testicles, even when they don’t actually belong to him.

Rolling her eyes, she says, “Your dog is fine and is completely intact—for the time being. He misses you. He’s...” Natasha glances toward the edge of the forest where the dog had fled to and draws in a sudden breath of surprise. “He’s... right here, actually.” And Ghost was indeed right there. He was on the porch with her, less than a foot away and closer than he’d ever been, his dark eyes intent and ears pricked forward, all of his attention on the phone. “He can hear you.”

“He can?” Clint begins talking, but not to her. “Hey buddy, how you doing? You miss me, eh? I miss you too, got kinda used to you following me around. I’ll be home tomorrow morning, I promise. You be a good boy until then, ok?”

Natasha angles the phone toward the dog and that whip-thin tail wags furiously when he hears Clint speak, his head cocking this way and that before responding with an inquisitive, grunting whine. Then he stretches his nose out until it very nearly touches the phone and snorts forcefully, spraying a mist of dog snot all over the phone and her hand.

“Hey!” she protests with disgust, her sudden outburst causing the dog to retreat to the edge of the porch, and Clint’s voice goes all tinny and distant as she wipes the device off on her pants leg before holding it up to her ear with a grimace.

“Tasha? Everything ok?” Clint was demanding.

“Everything was fine until your dog sneezed on my phone. Ugh. I need to wash my hands now. And change clothes, actually,” she says, glaring at the dog. Ghost recovers his courage with surprising speed and moves close to her again, his tail wagging when he hears the man on the phone’s hearty laugh.

“I wish I could have seen the look on your face when that happened,” and she can hear the smile in his voice. “How close is he now?”

“Close enough for me to reach out and touch, actually. He really has missed you. He looked everywhere for you those first couple of days you were gone, I think he’d all but given up on seeing you again. He’ll be overjoyed to see you tomorrow.”

“That’s good to hear. Hell, I was half worried he’d run off, find someone else to steal things from and mooch off of. What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

“You doing all right?” Clint hesitates before confessing in a lowered voice, “I was half worried you’d run off too, actually.”

Natasha’s pulse speeds up again at that reminder of the conversation they’d had before he left, but all she says is, “I said I’d take care of your dog, didn’t I?”

He exhales, “Yeah, you did.” From the other end of the line, she can hear a woman’s voice talking in the background, and then he says, “Gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead and when she lowers the phone, Ghost looks from the now silent device to her and back again. He’s still close enough that she could reach out and touch him, but she doesn’t, because that honor is reserved for Clint. So she tucks the phone into her pocket and turns her back to the dog.

He quivers, withdrawing a little before extending his nose again to sniff at her, close enough to ruffle her red hair. She hears his toe nails click on the porch and then he hops of the porch, returning to his spot in the middle of the yard—though not without a prize. The dog lays down in the sunlight with the remainder of her apple, and his eyes are so bright and lively that she could swear he’s laughing at her when he settles down to eat it.

Around 9:30 the following morning, Natasha hears a car coming up the driveway and walks over to watch Clint park the car. He opens the car door and gets out, stretching and arching his back with the weariness of a man who’s spent a good part of the last fifteen hours on a plane. She steps outside right around the same time that Ghost emerges from the woods, and watches as the dog takes one slow step toward the man and then another, his nose lifted to verify the human’s identity. 

Clint tosses a brief wave toward her that she answers with a casual smile and head bob, before turning his attention toward the dog. “Hey Ghost, did you miss me?”

When the brindle dog hears him speak, he convulses and then runs right at Clint with reckless canine elation, his tail wagging so hard that his entire spine shakes from side to side. He remembers he’s supposed to be afraid of the man a fraction of a second before running headlong into him, and skitters to a stop, choosing instead to rear up on his hind legs, waving his forepaws at him before dropping to the ground.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding. He really did miss me!” he exclaims, reaching out toward the dog. “I missed you too!” Ghost dances back, just out of reach, though he seems no less happy. When Clint straightens again, the brindle dog darts forward, leaping up again without touching him, and then starts running—not away and into the woods as he’s done so many times in the past, but for the pure joy of it, in looping circles around the car, man and yard. Each time he swings around, he runs right at Clint, turning aside at the very last moment and when Barton reaches out and just manages to touch him as he buzzes past the third or fourth time, he startles the dog so much that his haunch touches the ground when he tries to twist away. But Ghost doesn’t stop running, and so it becomes a game of tag, with Clint laughing, “I’m gonna get you!” as he tries to touch the dog again as he zooms past. 

A bemused Natasha watches the two play and there is something so pure and natural about their interaction that after a few minutes she has to turn away, because it is just too much. When she goes back inside, it takes her a couple of seconds to realize that she’s jealous of Clint’s open affection for the damn dog. He’d show you how happy he was to see you, though in different ways, if you’d let him, an annoying voice in her subconscious mind helpfully points out. She quashes that thought straight away and just in time, as the front door opens and Barton comes in with his luggage and gear. 

He’s still breathless and smiling from playing with Ghost, but when she turns to face him with that same casual smile in careful place, her sharp gaze takes note of the weariness on his face, the slight discoloration under his eyes indicating that he hasn’t been sleeping well. “Rough mission?”

The bags drop with heavy thuds, and his smile is rueful, “That bad?”

She inclines her head, allowing, “You’ve looked better.”

Clint walks over to sit at the kitchen bar with a yawn and rubs his head with his hand until his hair is all mussed up clumps. “Actually, the mission went off without a single hitch. Got anything in there to eat?” he jerks his chin at the refrigerator, changing the subject.

S.H.I.E.L.D. may have a ridiculous budget and its agents have access to some of the highest tech equipment known to man, but even commercial airlines have the quinjets beat when it comes to in flight food. She gives him the last apple, crackers and a jar of peanut butter, simple fare but more than enough to take the edge off of his hunger. 

“I see Ghost did some more landscaping,” he comments around a bite of the apple.

She’s confused for a moment and then realizes what he’s talking about. “More like doing his best to eradicate all evidence of Stark’s visit last week.”

His eyebrows shoot upwards, “Tony was here? What’d he want?”

“Nothing. Said he was ‘in the neighborhood’ and decided to drop by for a visit. More like trying to dodge some business function. He was only here a few minutes before Pepper called him in.”

Gesturing at her with the apple, he asks, “How’s the ankle?”

“Fine. The ace bandage is back where it belongs—in your closet.”

A brief silence ensues that is only broken by the sound of Clint munching on the apple. He eats the rest of it, slides off the bar stool to drop the core into the trash, and wipes his fingers off on the damp dishrag before asking, “You heading back to New York tonight?”

She’d been thinking about doing just that, but there’s no way she’s going to give off the impression that she’s running away. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.” 

They know each other too well, though, and while his expression doesn’t change at her announcement, he knows exactly what she is doing. “Tasha...”

The storm door suddenly rattles, causing them both to jerk. Ghost is there, peering at them through the glass.

“I don’t think he’s ready to let you out of his sight just yet,” Natasha says with dry humor when the dog paws at the door again, veiling her relief at the interruption.

The moment has passed, and he knows it. Chuckling, Clint gathers the peanut butter and crackers and she follows him outside to the porch table.

Ghost’s happiness at Barton’s return has given the dog newfound bravery. While they sit at the table and talk shop with relieving normalcy, he edges close enough to sniff the man’s clothing, though he darts for the edge of the porch if they so much as look at him. Eventually, Clint is able to persuade the dog to take the last peanut butter cracker right from his fingertips before they head back inside.

Despite his obvious fatigue, Clint spends the rest of the day unpacking, stowing his gear, and going through ten days of mail and bills, interspersed with periods of play with Ghost. The dog initiates contact, but only on his own terms. He will sniff and press his snout up against the man with such force it could almost be described as a head-butt (or nose-butt, really), and will jump up him with such enthusiasm that it’s almost enough to knock him over, but only from behind. He avoids Clint’s hands at all costs, recognizing them for what they are—the most dangerous part of any human.

Natasha acknowledges to herself that the dog is smarter than the vast majority of people she has met.

Barton stops fighting sleep and goes to bed at around eight that evening. It’s just after two am that his guttural shout wakes her up. Her Glocks are in her hands even though she has no recollection of actually drawing them. Creeping down the hall toward his room, she pauses to listen. She can hear his harsh breathing, but nothing else, no sounds of struggle or other duress. “Clint,” she says, certain he already is aware she’s on the other side of the wall.

His breath hitches before he replies with a hoarse, “Yeah.” Ten seconds pass and he opens the door. Even though she knows he hasn’t been sleeping well, she is still taken aback by his haggard appearance in the darkness. “Gimme a minute.” He doesn’t meet her eyes as he brushes past her on his way to the bathroom.

After verifying that his room is clear, she secures her guns, turns on the bedside lamp, and sits down on the edge of his rumpled bed to wait. She hears the faucet run, and then there’s another long period of silence before Clint emerges. He looks marginally after splashing water on his face, but his t-shirt is still damp with sweat and sticks to his torso. When he sits down beside her, she can feel the heat emanating off of him, but she is certain that if she were to touch him, his skin would be clammy and cold.

“Tell me,” is all she says.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares straight ahead with his hands on his knees. Then he inclines his head a fraction of an inch, casting his gaze about the room. “I’m thinking of redecorating in here. Maybe installing some mirrors on the ceiling and the walls.”

She knows why, because she’s had the same dream. That when he wakes up, his eyes are not storm gray but Tessaract blue, and someone—or something—else has swallowed up all that there is of Clint Barton and scoured it away.

“If you’re looking to give me a reason to hit you in the head again, all you have to do is ask.”

That startles a brief laugh out of him. “Maybe you can kill two birds with one stone, and knock some sense into me at the same time.”

Natasha snorts, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He snickers and then heaves a long drawn out sigh, admitting, “I thought... I hoped I was past all this stuff.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she considers her words carefully before telling him, “It takes time, more than a few months. It’s three steps forward, two steps back. But even so, you are still moving forward, one foot at a time.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s true.” Meeting her eyes with the tiniest of smiles, he asks, “Is this your professional opinion, Ms. Romanov?”

She gives him a sharp nod, saying crisply, “It is, Agent Barton.” Drumming her fingers on her knee, she adds, “If all else fails, imagine me sitting near with a steel pipe at hand, ready to beat him out of you again.” Then she gets to her feet, walks over to the writing desk in the corner of the room, and carries the chair over to set beside the bed. She sits down facing him, crosses her legs, and waits.

Clint is confused for a moment and then shakes his head ruefully. “I reckon the chair will do until you can get your hands on a pipe,” he says and slides between the sheets with a weary sigh. Pulling them up to his shoulder, he rolls on his side to face her, watching as she leans over to shut off the light.

The room is dark and silent but for the sound of their breathing. She hears him shift on the bed before he whispers, “Tasha...”

“Goodnight, Clint,” she interrupts and her tone brooks no argument.

He sighs, shifts again, and then in a matter of minutes, falls into the deep, heavy, uninterrupted slumber of the exhausted.

She leaves before he wakes up the next morning.


	7. Chapter 7

“So how’s Clint’s new dog doing?” Pepper asks over the rim of her fluted champagne glass.

Natasha replies, “I’m sure he’s fine,” and glances around the large ballroom, ignoring the appreciative looks she and her tall, blonde friend are being given as they chat together. For once, she isn’t working. Instead, she’s been convinced to attend the large charity event by Pepper since Tony is on one of his creative benders and has holed himself up in the lab with JARVIS and Dummy. It might be days, or even weeks, before he emerges. 

“Please come with me, Natasha,” Pepper had all but begged. “I just want to shut my brain off and enjoy myself, I don’t think I can take another long evening of dodging friendly advice and business propositions by myself. I swear, if you don’t come, you’re liable to read about me in the paper the following morning. ‘CEO of Stark Industries throws herself off balcony into sculpted ice swan to avoid proposed merger!’” While that would have been a headline worth reading, she had reluctantly agreed to attend.

It takes her a moment to register the odd look Pepper is giving her and Natasha finds herself glaring down at the innocuous liquid in her glass. She is not known to speak in ambiguities, only in absolutes. How was it that she could drink enough hard liquor to give most men twice her size alcohol poisoning, but three or four (or was it six?) glasses of effervescent bubbles is enough to gum her wits into thick porridge? She deposits the half empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter. “I’ve been busy.” It sounded like an excuse, even to her ears.

The gaze Pepper levels her direction was too sharp by half. “So how long’s it been since you last talked to him?”

“To who? Clint’s dog? We’re not really on speaking terms.”

That earns her an exasperated huff that morphs into a frown of concern. “Is everything all right?”

For a brief moment, Natasha interprets the question to mean that Pepper knows about what happened with Clint, how he was mind-controlled by Loki. But then she remembers that she and Barton both work for S.H.I.E.L.D., which isn’t exactly a low risk occupation in and of itself, and Pepper is fully aware of that, especially after the events in New York. “If anything was wrong, I’d be one of the first to know, so yes, everything’s all right,” she reassures her friend. “It’s just gotten... complicated.” Well, she hadn’t meant to add that! Damn those bubbles!

Understanding dawns and then Pepper beams at her. “It’s about time!”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘It’s about time!’ Natasha, we’ve known each other for what, three years now? A little more? And in all this time I’ve heard you talk casually about exactly ONE guy, Clint Barton—and only then if you’ve had some champagne.” No sooner has she made that admission than she snags another glass from a nearby waitress, and pushes it into Natasha’s hands. “So drink up and dish. You two had ‘The Talk’?”

Natasha can hear the capital letter emphasis on those two simple words, but only says, “We talked, yes. We always talk. We talk like you and I are talking.” She starts to take a drink of champagne, realizes what she’s doing, and returns it to the waitress’ tray.

“Mmhmm. So how complicated did things get? Did you two....” Pepper trails off and gives the barest suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows. 

“No. Not even close.”

“Oh,” Pepper looks and sounds disappointed. “Well then, what happened to complicate things?”

“Nothing.” A glance at the tall blonde indicates Natasha has zero chance of getting off that easy, and so she finally says, “He expressed an interest in expanding the parameters of our relationship.”

“I see. And I take it you think it’s a bad idea?”

“Of course it’s a bad idea,” Natasha firmly states. “I am quite content with our relationsh—our friendship—as is.”

Pepper’s tone is deliberately bland, “And let me guess, you think that trying to be more than just friends has the potential to ruin your friendship and cause problems where none existed before?”

“Exactly. I don’t want things to change.”

“Mmhmm,” is Pepper’s noncommittal response. She sips from her glass of champagne, not quite looking at Natasha when she asks, “And when was the last time you spoke to Clint again? Because if you really haven’t talked to him in the months since he got his dog, haven’t things already changed? I mean, before, you spoke to him, what, every week? And now?”

Natasha opens her mouth to retort and then snaps her mouth shut, because Pepper is right. Things have already changed. She’s avoided calling Clint because she doesn’t want to deal with any awkwardness, and it abruptly occurs to her that there’s an excellent chance Clint hasn’t called her because he’s trying to give her space. 

Sighing, Pepper reminds her with wry humor, “Just remember who I’m dating. I’m pretty sure that whatever happens between you and Clint, it hasn’t got a prayer of being as complicated as my relationship with Tony. Don’t get me wrong, we have our ups and downs, but the good has outweighed the bad, for both of us I like to think. So far, at least. When was the last time you were seriously involved with someone, anyway?”

“It’s been a while,” Natasha prevaricates, unwilling to admit to Pepper that every relationship she has been was work-related or had more to do with ulterior motives and hidden agendas than emotional attachments. Taking a sip of champagne, she does her best to divert further attention from the subject at hand by saying, “I’ll think about it. It’s just... a big adjustment.” 

“Tell me about it,” Pepper responds with a wry smile and the benefit of experience in such matters. 

She calls Clint two days later. He answers on the first ring and she can hear the genuine pleasure in his voice when he speaks. “Tasha! How are you? Everything ok?”

Smiling, she makes a Russian sound of exasperation, “Please, you actually think I’d call you if I were in some kind of trouble?” 

“A guy can always dream,” he returns, chuckling.

Their conversation has settled into normal instead of the expected awkward that Natasha finds herself feeling foolish for having avoided calling him for the past four months. She hears drawers in the background opening and closing and knows what that means. “You getting ready for work?”

“Yeah, Fury called right before you did.”

“You still have that dog? You need someone to check in on him when you’re gone?”

“He should be ok, Jamie checks on him every couple of days, makes sure he’s got food and....” The phone does that stutter thing that means there’s another call coming in. “Damnit. Hill’s on the other line, I gotta go, but Natasha... “

“Yes, Clint?”

“It’s good to talk to you again,” he says softly, and then hangs up. 

She smiles, but she’s also wondering who the hell Jamie is. If Jamie has access to Clint’s home while he’s out of town, she must rank high up on his trustworthy meter, but in Natasha’s mind he is far too giving of that commodity to begin with. It’s been just under five months (four months, twenty-two days and eight hours really, but who’s counting?) since she found out about Clint’s interest in pursuing a relationship with her, so it’s quite possible that he’s moved on. Ever the pragmatist, she reminds herself that Clint is free to spend time with and/or date whoever he wants, because she is Definitely Not Interested. 

A week later, she’s back from a brief assignment and decides to stop in on Clint’s house and see how Ghost is faring in his absence. She ignores the fact that Barton’s still off on his own mission in Thailand and will probably return any day now according to S.H.I.E.L.D. logs, someone needs to make sure the dog is being well taken care of and it might as well be her. If she happens to run into this Jamie person in the process, she’ll be sure to introduce herself.

It’s fall now, and Clint’s yard has undergone a few changes since she last saw it. The garden hose is no longer strewn across the lawn, it’s now reeled in and stored in a heavy wooden box. There’s a large sturdy wooden doghouse on the front porch, and when Natasha’s car pulls into the drive, its occupant sticks his head out, stretches and yawns, and trots toward the edge of the woods to sit and watch her approach. 

Ghost has changed a bit himself. He’s far from skin and bones now, and is lean and healthy. Both of his ears stand straight up, there’s no longer any bend at all to them. That, along with his watchful gaze, lend the dog an intelligent and wary dignity. At some point, Clint managed to catch the dog long enough to get a bright orange reflective collar around his neck, clearly identifying him as someone’s pet. His dog bowl and a stainless steel bucket filled with water are next to the dog house, but when she gets out of the car and walks toward the house, a wadded scrap of grey fur and a pair of long thin bones tipped with hooves indicate that Ghost is supplementing his diet with squirrel and deer legs. 

There’s no other car in the drive, so the mysterious Jamie must not be there at the moment. Natasha lets herself into the house using her key. A cursory inspection of the house reveals that whoever Jamie is, she isn’t living with Clint—or even staying the night. In fact, the only evidence that someone’s besides Clint has been there at all is the empty water glass sitting by the edge of the sink, and the lone Dr. Pepper can in the recycling bin. The only feminine toiletries in the bathroom belong to Natasha and are ones she’s left there from prior stays. The same goes for spare clothes, and all of those are in the guest bedroom right where she’s left them, not in Clint’s dresser. 

She does, however find something of interest in the back of the socks and underwear drawer—a slender black jewelry box. Staring at the box for a long moment, she reaches out to pick it up when she hears a car in the drive way. Natasha shuts the drawer again and walks to the front of the house, watching an old Subaru pull into the driveway. Jamie, as it turns out, is a freckle-faced kid with dark brown hair that she recognizes as being the grocery store bag boy from the day she had a run-in with Clint’s would-be stalker, Lori. 

The boy is staring at her car with an uncertain expression on his face when she comes out of the house. “Hi,” he says tentatively, “Clint—er, Mr. Barton has me taking care of his dog?” He studies her face for a moment, “Wait, I remember you from the grocery store, Lori got written up for calling you a bitch.” 

She smiles at that, “And you must be Jamie? I’m Natasha.”

Jamie looks a bit dazzled by her smile and after a moment, finds his voice, “It’s nice to meet you. Is Mr. Barton back? He said he’d be back sometime this week but wasn’t really specific as to the actual date.”

“He should be back tomorrow or the next day. Don’t worry bout feeding Ghost, I’ll keep an eye on him until Clint gets back.”

Nodding, the kid asks, “So are you an international business consultant like Mr. Barton is? I remember hearing you say you two worked together?”

Natasha almost laughs at Barton’s explanation of what they do. “We work out of the same office, and together on occasion.”

“So, what’s that entail? I mean, it seems to involve a lot of travelling, but what exactly do you do?” he asks curiously.

“Troubleshooting, for the most part.” A heavy emphasis on ‘shooting’. “Problem solving. It’s really quite boring, though at times it picks up.” Diverting him from probing for any more details, she gives him another blinding smile and says, “Thank you for taking care of Ghost for him. Does he owe you anything, did you have to buy any extra dog food or anything?”

Shaking his head, Jamie assures her, “Oh no, he already paid me, and he’d bought an extra bag of dog food just in case he ran out. That’s one weird dog. Runs off at the sight of me, but I know he’s watching me all the time. Won’t even eat until I’m gone.”

Natasha turns to look at the dog, who is, naturally, watching them from the edge of the woods. “Well, outside of Clint, I’m quite sure that people haven’t given him much reason to trust them. So he’s erring on the side of caution. It’s likely what has kept him alive this long.”

“That’s kind of sad, but it makes sense.” The boy looks around and gives an awkward shrug, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Natasha. Tell Mr. Barton to give me a call if he needs anything else.” 

As soon as his car pulls out of the drive, Natasha goes back inside and opens the drawer. Picking up the jewelry box, she opens it and stares at the necklace within, a small sterling silver arrow on a delicate chain. She’s never been big on jewelry, and while her ears are pierced, the earrings she wears are typically simple hoops. Even when she is ‘in character’ for a job, she tends to operate under the guideline that less is more. But this... 

She reaches out to touch it, then against her better judgment, carefully eases it out of the black velvet lining, heads to the bathroom and tries it on. It nestles perfectly in the hollow of her neck, as though it were made for her—and it probably was. She wonders when he got it. Despite her actions today, she doesn’t make a general rule of rummaging through his belongings, so there’s no telling how long it’s been there. After Loki and the whole New York invasion thing, she’s pretty sure—but even that’d mean he’s had it for almost a year now. 

Such a fragile thing is far too impractical for someone in her line of work and she can’t believe Clint would waste money on such a trinket, but brushes her fingers over the silver arrow anyway, weighs the thin chain, and then removes it. Two minutes later, the necklace is back in Clint’s dresser where it belongs. 

The following morning the temperature drops, and the ground is dusted white with a thick layer of frost. Ghost is quite content to stay snuggled up in his dog house on the pile of cedar shavings that serves as his bedding. After her run, Natasha showers and cleans her guns. She’s just settled in with last month’s copy of Guns & Ammo magazine when she hears the familiar rumble of Clint’s Bronco pulling into the drive. 

She opens the door and watches in bemused silence as Ghost zips around Clint like someone’s set his tail on fire. Four months ago she watched a similar display, in the time that’s passed since then, he’s grown bold enough to jump up on the man from the front before dropping the ground and holding still—aside from his furiously wagging tail—to be pet on his sides and head. It’s quite a change from her first sight of the dog, back when he was so frightened of humans the mere sight of one was enough to send him fleeing for the woods in terror. 

Clint’s doing better as well. If he looks a bit tired and in need of a shower, it’s from jet lag and long hours of surveillance, and not from guilt-induced insomnia. “Wasn’t expecting a welcoming party,” he says to her with a grin, giving the dog a playful shove to push him down. Of course that invites canine retaliation in the form of another jumping, this time from the side and with enough force that the man loses his balance and staggers. 

“More of a committee than a party. No streamers or party favors. Just got back from a job myself, figured I’d stop in and check on your dog. He seems to be doing just fine,” she tells him. “How was Chaing Mai?”

“Hot. Rainy. Same as it always is.” 

She helps him get his duffel and gear out of the back of the SUV, and together they carry it inside. No sooner has the door shut than Ghost is pawing at the glass insistently, demanding Clint come back outside.

Natasha watches from the porch while man and dog play, and it happens so fast that neither one of them realizes anything serious has happened. Ghost dashes around Clint at greyhound speed and when the man reaches out toward him in their game of tag, the dog turns on a dime to avoid the touch, his paws digging into the ground. His jaw drops and eyes widen in a canine expression of surprise but he doesn’t make a sound, just stops running, sits down on his haunches about twenty feet away and licks at his front right paw.

Clint feints at Ghost, which is invariably more than enough to make him dart off again, but this time all he does is move a couple of feet, lifting his paw up a little to lick at again. They notice the dark red stains on the grass at the same time. “Tasha...” he says, and takes a slow step toward the dog. 

She’s already on her feet, heading inside for the first aid kit. By the time she’s back outside with it, Clint has just reached Ghost, and has a firm grip on his collar to keep him from bolting. The dog’s eyes are rimmed white with a combination of fear and pain, and while he flinches away from her as she approaches, he makes no real effort to get free and run. There is blood everywhere on the ground now, far more than a simple leg wound could possibly produce.

“Holy shit,” Clint mumbles as he gives the dog’s injured paw a quick inspection. The thick black pad has been torn almost completely off and hangs on by a thin strip of flesh, and there’s a massive gouging wound that digs right into the dog’s wrist. She can see mangled bloody white strands that she knows are severed tendons, and bone beyond. Bending the paw pinches off the blood flow, which is a good thing because with the amount of blood gushing from the vessels in the paw there, it’s apparent to both agents that this is a potentially life-threatening wound. 

Natasha digs in the first aid kit while Clint holds Ghost in place, maneuvering the torn paw pad back to where it belongs, covering it with a thick piece of gauze and then wrapping the whole paw tight and with military precision. Through it all, the dog doesn’t make a sound, not even a whimper, just shakes like a leaf as Clint whispers soothing words, and somehow that makes it even worse. 

He’s digging in his pocket for his cell phone and keys before she’s got the last piece of tape in place, calling the veterinarian he’s been using to let them know he’s on his way with an emergency. Clint tosses her the keys and lifts Ghost, carrying him over to put into the back of the Bronco before climbing in. 

Lakefront Veterinary Clinic may be small, but the staff is professional and efficient. They’ve already prepped an examination room for their arrival and the receptionist immediately guides them there. Both of the clinic’s veterinarians come to tend to their canine patient, and the moment they unwrap the bandage and get a first hand look at how bad Ghost’s freak injury is, they sedate the dog and whisk him into surgery. 

It’s Wednesday morning, but it must be a slow day because they are the only ones in the waiting room. It’s been about an hour since Ghost was taken back to surgery. There’s another client with a yowling cat in one of the exam rooms, but other than that, it’s very quiet. 

“This is how I remember Budapest,” Clint says out of the blue. 

Engrossed in a surprisingly interesting article about Doberman Pinchers, it takes Natasha a moment to process his words. She closes the magazine, puts it back in the rack and looks at him. He’s staring straight ahead, the corner of his mouth turned up with the barest hint of wry humor. 

Budapest. It had one of those situations where everything went wrong at the worst possible time, but it’d also been one of the most exhilarating battles she’d ever been in. But she had a tendency to focus on that aspect of the mission, when the bullets had been flying and the adrenaline flowing, and only precision timing, acrobatics and a fair amount of luck had been the only thing that kept them alive against all reason. 

Their streak of good luck had run out, in the form of an RPG. The blast didn’t hit them directly, but the wall it obliterated did. Clint suffered a sprained ankle and a broken arm, which was bad enough. The bulk of the wall landed right on top of Natasha, and the resulting skull fracture knocked her unconscious. There was no extraction plan in place, but somehow, he got her out of the line of fire and to safety. The S.H.I.E.L.D. med center kept her in a medically induced coma until the brain swelling went down. He was there when the doctors woke her up, his arm still in a cast and eyes sunken into his skull with exhaustion and worry. 

“You and I remember Budapest very differently,” she tells him, repeating the very words he had said to her nearly a year ago at the Battle of New York, but it’s true. She remembers the battle. He remembers the aftermath. “And it’s only been a hour of waiting, not days.”

“When you don’t know whether you’re going to get good news or bad, it doesn’t matter how long you’re waiting for,” he says with uncharacteristic pessimism.

“He’s a survivor, like me. He’ll be fine.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then speaks in a low voice, ‘I thought I was doing a good thing when I started to look out for him. I figured, hell, even if I’m gone for weeks at a time, I make sure he gets fed while I’m gone, and when I’m around, I do my best to give him a safe place to come home to, whenever he wants, in whatever capacity he wants. But then stuff like this happens and I wonder, am I even cut out for this kind of thing, with the kind of screwed up life I live? Maybe he was better off without me. He’d probably have found someone else who’d give him a much better home than I’ve been doing. Sure, he’s a survivor, all right, but there’s a hell of a big difference between surviving and living, isn’t there.”

Natasha listens and his words made her more angry than she can remember being in years. Jabbing him in the shoulder with a finger, she growls, “You’re damn right there’s a difference between surviving and living, and the only reason he knows that distinction is because of you. You gave him a chance when no one else would, Clint. How much longer do you think that damn dog would have survived on his own if you hadn’t started to look out for him? What happened today was a freak accident. He’d be dead without you, from starvation or disease or even a bullet from someone who thought they were putting him out of his misery when all they were really doing was taking away any chance he’d ever have at knowing there was a better life out there, if only someone gave him a chance to experience it. You’re the only reason he’s lived this long, and don’t you dare forget that.” 

He gives her a long searching look and then stares straight ahead again and asks, “Is the dog the only thing we’re talking about, here?”

It’s only when he voices that question that she understands why she’s so furious—because without Clint’s intervention, she would have been just as dead as the dog would be. When he started second-guessing his efforts to save and rehabilitate Ghost, it hit too close to home, and reminded her of how close she came to missing out on the life she currently has, how he’d given her a second chance when no one else would. It’s not perfect, but she has a friend that she can trust with her life, twisted and convoluted as it can be. It’s more than she’d ever had, and more than she’d even dared to hope for.

“Maybe more than just the dog,” she finally answers his question.

“It’s true, though, what I said. There’s a difference between surviving and living. You know what I mean?”

Natasha thinks back to her discussion with Pepper Potts, and how the only relationships she’s ever been in with a man have been feigned, a means to an end, to get information or favors out of someone. She isn’t sure she’s even capable of anything more compelling than that, but she knows that when she is with Clint in any setting, she feels more normal and less fragmented than she does with any other human being. Surviving is getting by with the bare necessities. Living requires taking risks, and demanding more of your self and your surroundings than just the status quo.

“Is the dog the only thing we’re talking about, here?” she asks, giving him a sidelong look.

His lips twitch, and he tilts his head to the side, allowing, “Maybe more than just the dog.”


	8. Chapter 8

An hour and a half after taking him back for surgery, a vet tech comes out to update them. The veterinarians have reattached the paw pad and repaired the tendon damage, but whatever caused the wound has severed the flexor tendon in his wrist where they spread out to connect to the toe bones. Clint and Natasha know human anatomy well enough to know that if a human suffered a similar injury, it might mean permanent loss of the ability to use of one—or all—of the fingers and thumb in the hand. Oh, the tech adds, since he’s already under anesthesia, would they like to go ahead and neuter him?

Judging from Clint’s expression that just adds insult to injury, but when Natasha gives him a Look, he grimaces and nods. “May as well get it over with.”

Forty-five minutes later, the vet tech comes back out and says, “He’s out of surgery and in recovery. We’ll let you back to see him, but to warn you, he’s still pretty groggy from the anesthesia.”

They follow him into the back, where there’s a large open area that looks like a combination of lab and kennel room. Ghost is in a large kennel on the bottom sprawled out on a layer of thick blankets. His entire foreleg is splinted from his toes all the way up to his elbow with a thick center-line yellow bandage, but when he sees Clint his tail thumps against the metal kennel. 

Dr. Melinda Hallenbeck, the veterinarian, is optimistic but honest. She tells them that his entire leg has to be kept completely wrapped to limit all motion in his paw so the tendons have time to heal. He needs to spend at least three days at the vet’s office, so they can monitor the wound for signs of infection given the severity of the injury. It wasn’t just the tendons that were torn, both of the arteries that feed blood to his paw and toes were severed and had to be sewn back together. If they had not been with him or had not wrapped it to cut off the blood flow, he would have died from blood loss within a matter of hours. Even after he is released to Clint, Ghost’s leg will have to be immobilized for a minimum of eight weeks, with bandage changes coming every two to three days, especially while the wound is healing. It’s too early to tell if he will regain full use of his paw. 

Clint listens in silence and rubs the underside of Ghost’s jaw. The dog leans into his touch, drawing comfort from the man while his large, dark eyes shift around the unfamiliar room and people moving around. After about fifteen minutes of petting him he tells the dog he’ll be back to see him tomorrow, and reluctantly gets to his feet, closing the kennel door. 

Upon returning to the house, they discover a jagged rock half-buried in the soil beneath the dense carpet of grass. A single droplet of blood on the quartz-flecked stone is the only thing that indicates the role it played in Ghost’s freak accident. Clint pockets it and carries it inside. 

They visit Ghost at the vet hospital twice a day and take him on slow supervised walks in the grassy open field that serves as a yard, and the dog clumps around quite well on his splinted leg. The vet staff comment on how well-behaved he is, especially given his near-feral background and obvious fear of people. He walks on a leash like he was born to it, never struggles or tries to get away when they handle, even during the most unpleasant parts when they are putting medication on the stitched up wound. Instead, he endures in silence.

As for Clint, he is far more subdued than normal. He cleans out Ghost’s blood out of the back of the Bronco and then throws himself into target practice, replenishing and tweaking his arrow supplies, and reorganizing his garage. When he’s not making or shooting arrows, he sits alone and stares at that rock, turning it over and over in his hands. 

That small, jagged rock is such an ordinary and unremarkable thing, but it could have just as easily stripped the dog away from Clint’s life just as surely as the magical staff of a would-be god had pulled Clint from hers. Anything that gives life value is worth keeping, especially when your ledger is splashed with red. Clint needs Ghost as much as Ghost needs him.

Natasha thinks back to that warehouse, when Phil Coulson said, “Barton’s been compromised.” Time shifted, stretched for those three words and after hearing them, nothing, not even the Avengers Initiative, was more important to her than getting him back by any means necessary. Coulson’s death had been significant enough. She is neither sentimental nor maudlin, but she still mourned him in her own way. If she had lost Clint Barton, sure, she would have gone on with life, she is a survivor, after all. But there is most definitely a difference between surviving and living.

Natasha needs Clint as much as Clint needs her.

Reciprocation.

It’s been there from the very start, like one of those blurred eye puzzles with a hidden image that can’t be seen until vision is shifted just so, and then the picture becomes so obvious it is hard to believe that there was ever a time that it was out of focus.

For the first time in her life, Natasha has intel that she does not quite know how to proceed with. Ghost will come home tomorrow, but the atmosphere in the house is stifling, filled as it is with her newfound knowledge and Clint’s gloomy mood, so she tells him to go shower and shave because they’re going out for dinner. He is surprised but makes no protest.

She freshens up as well, puts on black jeans and tank top, with her comfortable tan jacket and has just finished zipping up her boots when he emerges from his bedroom, dressed and ready to go, hair damp and spiked. Snagging his keys off of the counter, she leads the way to the Bronco and climbs behind the wheel. 

Natasha drives without any particular destination in mind, but as soon as she sees Bangtail’s Bar and Grill up ahead, she turns into the crowded parking lot. She’s always wanted to check this place out just to satisfy her curiosity but never has gotten around to it. This is as good a time as any. “Surprised that name is even legal to use in this state,” she comments and shuts off the engine.

Clint chuckles. “A bangtail is slang for a wild horse, or a mustang.” He looks at the bar and then back at her. “You sure you want to eat here? I mean, the wings are decent, but...”

“Sure. It’ll be great.”

Bangtail’s is more of a dive than a bar and grill. It’s crowded, noisy, and smells like beer, stale smoke and cheap food. The tables are first come, first served, but they’ve only been waiting about fifteen minutes before Natasha claims a small table against the wall by wedging in front of two men wearing cowboy hats. She gives them a winning smile to soften their defeat. 

The taller of the two looks her over from head to toe, sizes Clint up and then tells her, “Just let me know when he gets too boring, pretty lady. I guarantee you I’ll show you a better time than he ever will,” he leers.

Natasha looks across the small table at Clint leaning back in his chair, elbow crooked and fingers on his chin, thoroughly enjoying the show, and remembers the adrenaline rush of combat, explosions, the zap of her widow’s bite, arrows zipping past her face and aliens dropping to the ground like dead flies. “I seriously doubt that.”

They drink beer and eat wings and engage in the timeless tradition of people watching, which is far more entertaining than it usually is thanks to an endless stream of cowboys, rednecks, women in Daisy Dukes and a few bearded men who may or may have escaped from that so-called reality series with the duck guys. It is a country and western bar, so naturally a fight breaks out, but the combatants are quickly ushered to the door by two bulky men in t-shirts that proclaim them ‘Security’. The band, aptly named Flat Out, takes the stage and the dance floor fills up with singles and couples and the pre-requisite line dancers. It’s all so ridiculously normal that Natasha can’t help enjoying herself and from his relaxed appearance, Clint is having a good time as well.

A familiar blonde head appears in the crowd near the bar. Lori is there with her friend, the same one she’d been with at the restaurant a few months back. The woman casts a glance around the room and her eyes brush over Natasha. She double-takes with a baleful glare and then shoots a double-barreled blast of middle finger at her. 

Natasha bursts out laughing. 

Lori doesn’t take that well, starts toward her with fists clenched, but her friend grabs her shoulder, holds her back and says something to her that can’t be heard over the noise of the crowd and band. The brunette stands close to blonde, her whispering co-conspirator.

Clint looks over his shoulder to see the cause of the outburst, one eyebrow raising at the sight of the two other women, and drawls over the edge of his beer mug, “Now now, there’s more than enough of me to go around, no need to fight over me.”

“Please, like it’d even be a fight,” she snorts in derision. Recalling her revelation from earlier, she holds his gaze with her own, and states, “Besides, I do not share.” Her tone brokers no argument.

He chokes on his drink but his eyes never leave hers as he regains control of his breath and sets the glass back down on the table. “I see,” he finally says. Drawing in a slow, even breath, he looks around the bar and at her again. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for her response, he gets up and walks toward the restroom. 

She is disconcerted by his abrupt departure. She’s not sure what kind of response she was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t that. Perhaps he didn’t understand what she was telling him, and she should be more forward so it leaves no doubt as to her change of heart? Shifting in her chair with increasing discomfort, it occurs to her that the reason for his retreat could be more biological than emotional. Beer is a diuretic, after all.

The tall cowboy reappears. He introduces himself (and of course his name is Daryl, because seriously, what else would it be?) and asks her to dance since her date doesn’t seem to interested. She declines, reassuring him that she is just fine where she is. He is both disappointed and skeptical, but swaggers off after promising to check in on her later in case she’s had a change of heart. Three more men converge on her before Barton returns, and she is shooing the last of them off when he slides back into his chair. 

Clint moves his half-finished beer out of the way so he can rest his forearms on the table, gestures toward Daryl with his chin and says evenly, “Just so we’re clear.... I don’t share either.”

A warm, open smile that appears on Natasha’s face at his words. “I know,” she reminds him, reaching across the table to rest her hand atop his and gives a quick squeeze. “I’ll be right back, damn this watery beer.” 

She’s washing her hands when the heavy restroom door flies open with enough force to bang on the adjacent wall.

“Hey, bitch,” Lori sneers. Her brunette stands close behind, her arms crossed and doing her best to look intimidating.

Natasha ignores her. 

“Hey, you red-headed whore, I’m talking to you.”

Reaching for a paper towel, Tasha dries off her hands with careful precision, not even acknowledging the blonde’s presence. There are at least two other women in the crowded bathroom, but they’re staying in their stalls where it’s safe.

“What the fuck, are you deaf? Hey!” Lori shouts, takes a step forward, and gives her a hard shove. “Have I got your attention now, slut? Hunh? So what, you think you are going to get away with stealing Clint away from me, and then come in here and, what, get any man you want just by wiggling your fat ass at them? Trying out your slut moves? Is that what you think is gonna work here?”

Natasha would laugh but really, this is all so pathetic and desperate she just wants to be done with it. She wads up the paper towel, throws it in the trash and turns toward Lori. “What I think is this—that it is impossible to steal someone from you when you never had him in the first place, sweetie,” she smirks, her tone dripping with contempt.

With a shriek of outrage, Lori comes at her, one hand raised like a claw, the other swinging in a wide arc to crack across Natasha's cheek in a hard, open-handed slap. 

So she breaks the blonde's nose. Lori drops like a felled tree. It's a fair trade. Ignoring the wails of pain coming from behind her, Natasha keeps one eye on the slack-jawed brunette while she inspects the red imprint on her cheek. She wipes a slight smear of lipstick from the corner of her mouth, then walks out of the restroom, passing security in the process.

A bemused Clint watches her approach, his sharp eyes catching sight of her reddened cheek. Instead of returning to her own chair, she walks to his side of the small table, puts her hand on his shoulder, and that’s the only warning he has before she bends down and kisses him, a hard and passionate kiss that claims him for her, and her alone. It doesn’t last for long, but by the time she pulls away people nearby are whooping and whistling. Country western bar. Enough said.

Natasha straightens and looks around. “You want to dance?”

It takes him a minute to find his voice. “Dance? You want to dance? Now? Here, of all places?”

Shaking her head, she corrects him. “No. I want to dance with you. That it happens to be here in this hole in the wall is meaningless, in comparison to that.”

Clint’s mouth opens, shuts, then without saying a word, he gets to his feet and takes her hand. 

 

The band is playing a number suited for slow dancing and they’ve danced together before on jobs as part of their cover, but this is different. Natasha is hyper aware of that when he takes her into his arms. He holds her like she’s made of spun glass, but she wriggles closer. Lori’s crying is just audible over the noise of the club and Clint brushes his fingertips over her cheek. “So. Making new friends?”

“More like reconnecting with your old ones.” 

“It sounds like you reconnected pretty hard,” he observes.

Natasha shrugs. “She can still walk, though she may have some problems finding a date in the near future.”

Neither of them speaks for a short time and as she studies his features, it takes her a moment to decipher his expression. She rolls her eyes, ordering him, “Stop that.”

He flinches, misses a step. “Stop what?”

“Stop looking like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Chuckling, he admits, “I’m sorry! I’m just... kind of feeling like I entered the Twilight Zone, here.”

She arches an eyebrow. “That bad?”

His arms tighten around her and he roughly corrects, “No, it’s that good.”

She smiles at that and then looks past his shoulder. One of the security guys is approaching, and he seems almost apologetic when he catches her eye and gestures at her. “Well. If it makes you feel better, I think we’re about to be escorted back to the real world.” 

“What?” He sees what she’s talking about and laughs. “They have a zero tolerance fighting policy.”

“Please. That cannot possibly be classified as a fight.”

The Security guy says, “I understand you were involved in an altercation in the Ladies Room. I’m very sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” And he actually sounds sincere, like he really is sorry he’s having to do it.

“It’s all right. We were just leaving.” 

When they get home, he closes the door behind them, turns, and then she kisses him again. This kiss doesn’t stake a claim, but is slow, explorative, deliberate. They’re both breathing harder when her lips trail a searing path from his mouth and past his jaw line to nibble on his ear. “Tasha,” he breathes, kissing the sensitive skin at the crook of her neck. 

“Clint,” she gives his ear a playful nip.

The air escapes him in a hiss and his fingers tighten on her hips before he draws away from her with obvious reluctance. His eyes are dark with desire as he struggles to speak. “Tasha. I... this...”

She cups his face in her hands, looks him square in the eyes and tells him, “This is not about sex. I know that.” Brushing her lips over his one more time, she whispers, “Good night, Clint.” Then she puts her hand on his shoulder and turns him, giving him a slight push in the direction of his bedroom before heading toward her own. He acquiesces without protest, shutting the lights off as he goes. 

It’s not until she catches sight of herself in the mirror that she remembers it. She allows him one warning knock before opening his door. He’s in the process of pulling on the t-shirt he sleeps in when she walks over to his dresser drawer and pulls out the slender black jewelry box. 

Removing the arrow necklace, she lets that elegant silver chain slide through her fingers before glancing at him over her shoulder. “Will you help me put it on?”

Wordlessly, he moves behind her and takes the necklace. She holds her hair out of the way while he slips the chain around her neck and clasps it into place. The arrow is cool and settles perfectly into the hollow of her neck, just as it was made to do. It is fragile and impractical and she doesn’t care. His arms ease around her body to hug her from behind and he presses a warm kiss onto that delicate chain where it rests on her shoulder.

She turns in his arms and lets her hair settle back onto her shoulders, giving a little head toss for good measure. “Well?” she asks, arching one eyebrow.

Taking a step back, he carefully examines her and somehow manages to look happy without coming across as smug. Then he gives her a deep and tender kiss, whispers, “Good night, Tasha,” puts his hand on her shoulder to turn her, and gives her a gentle push toward the door.

She’s still smiling long after she turns out the light on her nightstand.


	9. Chapter 9

She attacks him the following morning. It’s been a while since she’s done so, but that’s the whole point of a surprise attack. He is indeed surprised, but recovers quickly. At one point in the fracas, his face is only inches from hers, so she kisses him. 

“I think all things considered, I prefer being woken up like that,” he tells her, and she just laughs.

Adjusting from being partners to being Partners isn’t like turning a switch from off to on, and she knows they will never be a touchy-feely couple, but they don’t need to be. The fact that his touch lingers a little longer now when they spar that morning, or that she no longer feels the need to maintain that invisible one inch barrier that has been between them since the night she slipped into his bed only to be told, “I am not your job,” things like that are proof that their relationship has shifted into something else, something more. 

And they even have a dog. Or, they do when they go to pick up Ghost from the vet’s office after his morning bandage change. His tightly wrapped foreleg is now lilac purple. They get him home and as soon as his feet touch the ground he gives the woods a longing look, but he doesn’t bolt for the trees like Natasha might have expected he would. Instead, he trots after Clint on the leash, trembling with canine worry when they walk the stairs.

“I’ve left the door open for him to let him know it’s all right if he comes inside, but he has only ever sat on the porch and watched me. He’s never been inside,” Clint tells her.

He opens the door and it’s the first time that Natasha has seen the dog truly balk on the leash, to the extent he rears back like a nervous horse being led into a narrow stall. “It’s all right,” Clint tells him, tugs on the lead, to no avail. In the end, he ends up just carrying Ghost inside the house, deposits him in the middle of the room and removes the leash. The brindle dog remains exactly where he is, while looking all around him as though he’s waiting for the real torture to begin.

Natasha felt much the same way when she first came into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. He ignores the dog, the same as he did to her back then, giving him a chance to relax and explore on his own. And, again, Ghost does the same thing she did—he does not let Clint leave his sight. The bathroom door is particularly vexing to the point that he actually makes that strange grunting whine he is wont to, scratching at the door, and wags his tail when Clint complains goodnaturedly, “Can’t a guy get a little privacy around here?”

That night, they’re getting ready for bed and when Clint goes into his room, Ghost follows. The dog circles the bedroom once, and then jumps up on the bed. When he circles once and lays down at the foot of the bed on the comforter, he lets go with a great sigh of contentment that has them both chuckling. 

He starts to close the door behind him and Natasha stops it with her hand, saying, “I’ll be damned if the dog gets to sleep in the same bed with you, and I don’t.”

She follows him to bed, waits until he turns out the light, and then kisses him. He’s tense in her arms, and she knows he can’t himself, can’t help wondering if this is real or one of her performances, and not something she really wants.

Natasha splays her hand on his bare chest, and says, “This is not a job. I want this. I want us.” 

He exhales a long, slow breath and says, “I didn’t think you believed in love.”

“Love is for children,” she scoffs, and brushes her lips over his. “This is not about loving. It’s about living.” Then she proceeds to show him exactly alive he makes her feel.

Ghost decides the floor is more comfortable, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is the shortest, but after flip-flopping multiple times on how this should end, I decided there wasn't much more to be said.

**Author's Note:**

> The dog in this story is real. His name is Klepto, and the interactions we had with him when he first showed up around our house are detailed in this story--right down to him stealing items and bringing them back. In fact, pretty much everything that happens in this story involving the dog really did happen in real life.


End file.
